


If the Soul Doesn’t Sing (Just One Life)

by elrhiarhodan



Category: White Collar
Genre: Backstory, Bisexuality, Domesticity, Emotional Trauma, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Transformation, Wingfic, Wings, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 20:19:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 47,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1954899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal is an Archon, a ‘guardian angel’, who has been watching over the soul of Peter Burke for millennia. He’s learned that Peter’s soul will not be reborn into a new life, and cannot bear the thought that he will continue for eternity without Peter. So he decides to take the forbidden path: become mortal and spend the rest of his days watching over Peter and caring for him. </p>
<p>But he will need to make a sacrifice, and he will need to learn how to Fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If the Soul Doesn’t Sing (Just One Life)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kanarek13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kanarek13/gifts).



> Written for Round One of the [White Collar Reverse Big Bang](http://wc-reverse-bb.livejournal.com/), based on artwork created by the incredibly talented Kanarek13 ([Artwork Post](http://kanarek13.livejournal.com/23945.html)).

 

 

Carefully perched over the mirror pool, wings outspread to give balance, Neal viewed the lone soul he’d been caring for its entire existence. He watched as the soul – this time around, a man – hurried about his business, unaware that he was being observed. Or maybe he was aware? The man’s pace slowed and then stopped. He looked up and Neal was struck by the terrible weariness in the man’s eyes. But beyond the weariness was something else, a hunger, a need, his loneliness so bitter it was hard to comprehend. The man shook his head and shrugged, looking back at the ground as he moved on.

Neal watched and grieved, understanding that this soul’s time – in this body and forever after – was nearly up.

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

What he didn’t know was that he was being watched, too. The Elders of his kind, Archons, were monitoring his every moment.

They argued gently amongst themselves, as was their habit. “He does not know that his grief is unnecessary.”

“He has guarded that lone soul for an eternity. His grief is already too much to bear.”

“Is it? If he does not grieve, then the sacrifice is meaningless.”

The Elders sighed collectively and continued their debate.

“The time is almost up.”

“Almost, but not yet. The cycle is not yet complete.”

“No, but it is not really a cycle, is it? This soul is approaching its endpoint – it has become tangled, impaired. There will be no rebirth, no new flowering into that life. He knows that.”

“But he does not know all of it. He does not remember what he did. He does not know why this is happening.”

One of the Elders noted, “And that is only part of the price he is paying for his repeated interference.”

Another replied, “He has always been too attached to that soul. Maybe if he had been required to watch over others, this tragedy might not have happened. It would be better if he had been able to keep some distance, some perspective.”

The Elder called June spoke for the first time. “Better for whom? Not for his charge, not for the greater good of us all. It is Neal’s grief that makes you uncomfortable."

The other Elders’ wings fluttered; a sign of reluctant agreement. “Yes. It feels … unnatural.”

June replied, “It is not unnatural. Merely unfamiliar. It has been a long time since this happened. And it has been a very long time since you have allowed yourself to feel so strongly about anything.”

“It is a mistake. It should not have been allowed to flourish.”

“Since when is a new life a mistake?” June’s words, though softly spoken, rang like bells through the stone chamber.

None of the other Elders answered.

“I will guide him.”

“You cannot interfere. Foreknowledge will destroy him.”

“I know.” The rustle of wings punctuated June's irritation. “It will be his choice. And when he makes that choice – of his own free will – he will need to know what to do. He will need _guidance_.”

The other Elders nodded and gave their assent. But not without a caveat. “Neal must understand that what comes next cannot be stolen, it can only be earned.”

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

Peter scrubbed his eyes; they were bleary and refused to focus. He ran his hand down his face – the scruff on his cheeks was an unpleasant sensation. It felt like he hadn’t showered or shaved in a month. He felt grimy, dried out and used up. “How much longer are we going to keep at this?”

“You don’t like being on the other side of the interrogation table, do you?”

Peter glared at the OPR agent, Garrett Fowler. He’d been grilling him for what seemed like days. “No, I don’t.”

“Then the sooner you answer my questions, the sooner we can all go home.” Fowler gave him a twisted smile.

“I’ve been answering your questions.”

“But I haven’t found your answers satisfactory, Burke. Let’s start from the top, okay?”

Peter tried not to sigh in disgust. They’d been through this a dozen times and he knew that they’d go through it a dozen more times, and maybe even a dozen more times after that. Fowler was trying to break him, trying to crack his story, to trip him up with inconsistencies.

“When did you first meet Senator Terrance Pratt?”

“He came to the office about twelve weeks ago, at my request.”

“Why did you ask a U.S. Senator to visit the FBI?”

“As I’ve already told you, Senator Pratt was part of a paper trail authorizing the transfer of a prisoner from Federal custody over to the New York City prison system. The man was killed on the trip from the Metropolitan Correctional Center to Rikers.”

“And you thought, what, that the senator was involved?” Fowler scoffed.

“His name was linked to someone who had interfered with the focus of a Federal investigation, and I thought it was a line that needed pursuing. His office told me that he was coming to New York for a meeting and I requested that he stop by the office if it was convenient. I would have made the trip to DC if he hadn’t come to see me.”

“Explain how you tied Senator Pratt to your prisoner’s transfer.”

Peter told himself not to lose his patience, to just explain again – as if it was the first time – that someone from Pratt’s office had contacted the Manhattan Correctional Center to arrange the transfer.

“Someone? Not the Senator himself?”

“The records show that the fax originated from a number assigned to his office at the Dirksen Senate Office Building.”

“But you couldn’t prove that the Senator himself ordered the transfer?”

“No, his signature was not on the paperwork.”

“Whose signature was on the paperwork?”

“That’s not clear.”

“So, you spent your time chasing after a U.S. Senator instead of investigating why the jail transferred the prisoner without proper authorizations.”

“I wouldn’t say I was chasing after Senator Pratt. His office said he’d be in New York and I asked if it was possible to talk with him. Nothing more than that – no demands were made. It was a courteous request for a meeting. And with regards to investigating the decision to make the transfer, my team had been interviewing the prison personnel who signed off on their end of the transfer, but they’ve been shut out. The Bureau of Prisons has taken over the investigation.”

Fowler’s aide, a man introduced only as Maurice, whispered something in his boss’ ear. Fowler finally asked a question that he hadn’t already asked a dozen other ways. “Did you consider that someone might have spoofed the header on the fax that was sent?”

Peter laughed; he had to at the arrant stupidity of the question. “Yes, of course we did. The telephone records from the Dirksen Office Building confirmed that there was a fax transmission from the Senator’s office to the Metropolitan Correctional Center that matches the timestamp on the fax’s header.”

Fowler shot a look of annoyance at Maurice. This effort to trip him up had failed. “Back to your investigation of Senator Pratt. At what point did you decide to make him a target of a Federal investigation?”

“A CI had provided us with information that linked Pratt’s early career in the D.C. police department to the family of the man who was murdered during the transfer.”

“A CI?” Fowler flipped through a case file. “That information is surprisingly absent from your reports. Why?”

“I was worried about a leak from inside the Bureau.”

“Yet you didn’t contact OPR.”

“No, I didn’t.” Peter didn’t need to elaborate. Fowler would make the connection without him having to hold his hand and lead him to the obvious conclusion.

“Care to give me the name of your CI?” The question was casually asked, but the interest behind it was far from casual.

“No.” On this, Peter was adamant.

“Seriously, Burke – you’re not helping your own case. You have suspicions about a leak at the FBI and you don’t report it to the people who are responsible for handling internal corruption issues. You open an investigation based on the word of a CI, a CI who doesn’t seem to exist outside of your word. A U.S. Senator was killed by a bullet fired from your gun and I’m supposed to believe that you weren’t in some way responsible?”

Peter knew he was responsible for Pratt’s death, even though he didn’t kill him. But he certainly wasn’t going to admit that. “Believe what you want, Fowler.”

“That’s a stretch, even for you. There are too many connections between you and Pratt that I can’t explain unless you help me.” Fowler was the voice of reason now. “I’m trying to keep you out of jail, Burke.”

“Really? It seems like you’re the one trying to put me there.” This time, Peter let his irritation show.

Fowler leaned back in his chair, a look of smug satisfaction on his face. “I’m here to do a job. I have no axe to grind.”

Peter didn’t believe that. Garrett Fowler was someone’s tool and he was an effective one at that. But he had no badge, no authority, and no way to find out who was pulling the strings.

The questioning went on, hour after hour after hour. Fowler started digging through his past, his record from his earliest years with the Bureau.

“This isn’t the first time someone was killed with a bullet from your gun, was it, Burke?”

Peter finally called a halt. “This is getting abusive. I agreed to this interview because I want to clear my name, but unless you plan to charge me and read me my rights, we’re done.”

“We’re done when I say we’re done, Burke. And not a moment before.”

“Seriously? You are seriously trying to play the heavy here?” Peter had to laugh. “If you want to go that route, I’ll call my attorney and you’ll get nothing further from me without her present. I’ve cooperated and I’ll continue to cooperate, but for tonight, I’m done.”

“You call this cooperating when you won’t name your CI?”

“I have told you over and over, the name of my confidential informant isn’t relevant to the investigation into Senator Pratt’s death. But if you want to challenge the propriety of my own investigation, then you’re going to have a fight on your hands.” Peter stood up and went to the door.

“This is far from over, Burke.”

Peter paused and turned. “I don’t doubt that.”

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

Neal watched the soul that was called Peter Burke in this life. He watched and grieved. And in his grief, he spun out the inevitable arguments that the Elders would make.

_“Soon, your vigilance will be unnecessary. You will need to choose another to care for.”_

“No.” As he uttered the word, Neal knew that the simple denial would not have the force to change the inevitable. “I do not want to watch over anyone else.” Neal's whole being rang with purpose. “When Peter ends, so do I.”

He could imagine the shocked, horrified tones of the Elders, their wings rustling in agitation, in rare anger. _“You know that is forbidden. You cannot make that choice. You go on, you are eternal.”_

“He was supposed to be eternal, too.”

_“We never know the complete destiny of a soul. Some souls are eternal, some are finite.”_

He didn’t want to accept that. It seemed too easy, to facile an explanation. And no matter how understanding, how sympathetic the Elders were, they could not ease his grief. There were rules and laws. The chief of which was, _“You cannot interfere.”_

“And what if I do?” Neal had to test the limits, he needed to know. There were legends and myths. And there were truths.

_“Then it is over – for you and for him. Forever. You cannot do this, Neal. You cannot interfere and you cannot change what will happen.”_

Neal continued his imaginary argument. “The future is mutable. If it isn’t, then we have no point in our own existence.”

His imaginary interlocutor had no answer.

Neal continued that thought. “We are creatures of free will, just as those we watch over.”

_“And that is why you cannot interfere.”_

“That is the paradox of life, is it not?” Neal said, more to himself.

_“Do not do this, Neal. You need to accept the inevitable.”_

“How can I?” Heartsick, Neal didn’t want to continue this argument, even just in the confines of his mind. He had plans to set into motion.

Falling wasn’t going be easy. He first had to discover how.

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

 

Peter let himself into the house, and the stillness hit him like a fist. Five years and he still couldn’t get used to the emptiness. The place was clean, but slightly disorganized. It was the house of a man who lived alone after too many years of living with someone.

After it happened, they came through and cleaned up, took care of things. Her shoes with their ridiculous high heels that always seemed to accumulate on the steps, her makeup scattered on the dressing table because she’d been in too much of a rush that morning to put it away. Her towel, still damp from the shower that morning, draped across the foot of their bed.

It was all gone. And it sometimes felt as if she’d never been there at all.

No, not she. _Elizabeth_.

He relived the worst moments of his life every time he walked through the front door. That night was like every other night, just like that one fateful night years ago when he had come home, calling out, “Hon, I’m home.” But his wife hadn't been upstairs – at least not his wife as he had known her. He’d wasted precious moments going through the mail piled on the front table, checking the machine for messages. Nothing had seemed out of the ordinary until Peter whistled for Satchmo. The dog, to his surprise, hadn’t come running like he normally did.

There had been a bowl still half-filled with kibble and that had worried Peter. Satchmo was a Labrador retriever, and the only thing he loved more than playing fetch was eating; nothing ever distracted him from his dinner. Peter had called for the dog again and listened carefully. There had been a slight whimper.

Peter had run upstairs, finding Satchmo at the master bedroom door, crying and pawing at the closed door. Peter had rushed inside.

Elizabeth had been on the floor, her eyes wide open, arms awkwardly flung outwards, half dressed and with her suit jacket clutched in her hand.

There hadn't been a mark on her.

The coroner’s report had said that Elizabeth had suffered a massive heart attack, and likely had died before she’d hit the floor. She hadn’t suffered, they said – as if Peter could take comfort from that. His wife was _dead_. The best part of his life was gone and Peter couldn’t help but wonder if the life he had with Elizabeth had been simply a dream, a fantasy spun out by the electrochemical process in his brain. That his reality was a singularity of loneliness.

Out of habit, he put his keys into the brass bowl on the front table and picked the mail up from the floor. There was nothing of importance – a few bills, a bunch of menus from takeout places in the neighborhood, an offer from the cable company to switch services.

Peter tossed out everything but the bills – those he’d take care of over the weekend. He headed into the kitchen with the vague idea of having something more nutritious than microwave Chinese food for dinner. But there was nothing in the fridge except two bottles of beer, a bag of coffee, a half a jar of mayo, some ancient ketchup, and a single sprouted onion.

He took one of the bottles and ignored the contents of the freezer. It was a nice night, probably one of the last before autumn truly set in. He could go sit out on the front stoop and watch the world go by or head into the backyard and try to find some peace for his unquiet soul.

Peter did neither. He sat down on the couch and stared into nothingness. The bottle of beer warmed in his grip. He might have sat there for hours, letting the events of the past six weeks play out in his head, but the doorbell rang, breaking his reverie. He wondered if it was someone from Fowler’s crew at OPR coming to arrest him, on god only knew what trumped-up charges.

But it wasn’t Maurice or Fisher or Castle. It was an old friend, someone he once trusted with his life, someone he cared for in ways too complex to explain. Someone whose appearance now sent sour notes through his gut.

Peter opened the door, but didn’t let his visitor come in. “Reese? What brings you to Brooklyn?”

“Would you believe me if I said I was in the area?”

Peter just stared at his former boss and mentor. His friend. “No I wouldn’t. Who sent you?”

“No one sent me.” Reese shook his head. “Don’t be an idiot, Peter. Can I come in?”

He wasn’t willing to let the man in just yet. “When did you start wearing a Rolex?” Peter noted the heavy steel timepiece on Reese’s wrist.

“It was a retirement present from David.”

Peter just raised an eyebrow at that obvious lie. Reese’s partner was not the sentimental type. Besides, he’d seen and used too many of those “Rolexes” to be fooled by the one on Reese's wrist.

Reese made a face and sighed in exasperation. “What? Do you want me to take it off and leave it in my car?”

Peter sighed, realizing how ridiculous his behavior was. “No, what I really want to know is why you’re here.”

“Can’t I pay a visit to a friend I’m worried about?”

“You can, but your timing’s very convenient. Did Fowler send you?”

Reese’s eyebrows went soaring. “Fowler? That incompetent jackass? I wouldn’t take orders from him if he was appointed Director. You know me better than that.”

Peter certainly did. But he wasn’t giving an inch. “But who _are_ you taking orders from?” He still barred the door with his arm.

“No one. I’m here as your friend.” Reese gave him a level look. “We go back too far and know each other too well. I care about you, Peter.”

Peter didn’t think for a moment that he hadn’t been sent by anyone, but he did accept Reese’s contempt for Fowler. And he knew that Reese cared about him – he’d helped him survive the early months after Elizabeth’s death. He took his arm down and gestured for the man to come in. “I can offer you a beer, that’s it.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Peter picked up his untouched bottle, retrieved the last long-neck from the refrigerator and went out to the tiny patio. Even though it was early October and the mosquitos had long since died, he turned on the bug zapper. He’d learned that the small device did a nice job of interfering with radio transmissions and digital recordings. If his friend had gone old school and was wearing a tape recorder, there was nothing he could do about that. Not that he was going to say anything useful to anyone.

“You don’t trust me, Peter?”

“I trust no one, not even you.” That was the truth these days.

Reese took a sip of beer and stared at him over the bottle. “Wise, but no one sent me. It’s been a long time since I’ve done the Bureau’s bidding. There’s not a lot of love left between us.” He’d been forced into retirement a second time when their Section Chief decided to play politics.

“But the Bureau was never really your first love, was it?”

Reese’s lips turned up in a slight grin. “I’ll give you that.”

It hit Peter like the proverbial ton of bricks and he wondered how he could have been so damn clueless not to realize why his friend was paying him a visit. It had nothing to do with gathering intelligence for OPR and everything to do with his future. Reese Hughes was an old, cold warrior – a relic of a time when threats spoke in Slavic languages. He might have carried an FBI agent’s gold shield, but he’d once worked for another agency, too. He probably still worked for them. As far as Peter knew, the NSA had no mandatory retirement age. Reese was recruiting and Peter was having none of it. “No.”

“No, what?” It might have been phrased as a question, but Reese clearly didn’t need an answer.

“You know what I mean. That’s not the path for me.”

“Are you certain?” The question was gently asked; a testing of the waters.

Peter nodded, unwilling to verbalize his feelings on the subject.

Reese didn’t give up, though. “You would fit right in. It wouldn’t be that much of a change, really. You’d be brilliant.”

“Don’t tell me you’re operating under the delusion that one government bureaucracy is the same as another. They aren’t. You owe your allegiance to a different set of rules. I can’t live my life under those strictures.”

“Why not?” Now Reese seemed puzzled.

“What do you mean, why not?”

Reese’s voice went soft. “Who would you need to tell?”

Peter closed his eyes. The answer to that question was a shot through the heart. He had no wife to share that secret with. His friends were mostly ones that had he’d made because of Elizabeth and they’d drifted away after her death. He didn’t really socialize with his colleagues. His monthly poker games were a relic of a happier past. Reese and his partner David were his only real friends.

Truth was, he had no one in his life, even casually. He worked, came home, ate and slept and repeated the cycle again the next day. Weekends that he wasn’t working meant he didn’t have to talk to anyone.

“I’m an FBI agent. It’s all I really ever wanted to be.”

Reese didn’t answer, but the compassion in his eyes spoke volumes.

Peter sighed, hearing what wasn’t being said. “What do you know?”

A lot, apparently. His old friend shook his head. “I’m sorry, Peter.”

“I’m not getting my badge back, right?”

Reese apologized again. “I am sorry. I know how much this hurts.”

“So, no matter what I say, the outcome of the OPR investigation is a foregone conclusion, right? They’re going to hang me for Pratt’s death, even though the shooter is in custody.”

Reese just nodded. “Unless you give them the source of the information you had on Pratt and Bennett and the Flynns.”

“I won’t do that. I can’t do that.”

“Then they’ll take your badge, Peter. Pratt’s death opened up a can of worms and the Bureau is looking for someone to blame.”

“If I resign, then what? Will they accept a sacrifice instead?”

Hughes’ answer was just what he expected. “If you retire, the case will be dropped. And like all retirees, you’ll get a notice of commendation from the Director and a letter from the President thanking you for your service. There won’t be any negative marks on your record from the Pratt debacle. You have your twenty, your pension’s secured and you’ll have the rest of your life in front of you.”

“So, if I play nice and resign, the Bureau will sweep Pratt’s death under the rug. But that won’t wipe away the stain of his murder on my soul.”

“You didn’t kill him, Peter.”

“But my gun did. He was there because I was investigating him.”

“No, Peter. Pratt was there trying to interfere with your investigation because he was tipped off by Calloway. She put this into play. Your evidence was solid.”

Peter shrugged. It was, but he wasn’t going to talk about it. He still had some sense of self-preservation left. “I’ll think about what you’ve told me.” That was all he could say.

“And think about the other thing, too. Promise me?” Reese placed a hand over his, a rare physical gesture these days.

He gave Reese a wry smile, reached over and turned off the bug zapper. He didn’t care who was listening. Nothing mattered anymore.

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

 

Falling wasn’t going to be easy. Neal didn’t have the slightest idea how to accomplish this near-mythical action. All he knew was that it required a sacrifice. His immortality, at the very least.

And his wings, for certain.

It made sense that it was difficult and secret, because if it wasn't, “heaven” would be empty of its “angels.” Neal smiled at that thought. This place – call it a realm, a dimension, a sphere if you wanted to be poetical – was not heaven, as if such a place existed. And “angel” was a mortal concept, born of accidental sightings of his kind, the Archons. It had been millennia since those sightings, but those stories were infamy to the Elders, one of the greatest breaches of their law.

Neal wandered through his aerie, the cavernous space where he had made his home. He was restless, worried. For the past few days, the Elders had been keeping too close a watch on him, lest he take the forbidden step. It was his own fault, for so vocally championing his charge’s existence in the face of an inevitable end.

But the Elders’ vigilance seemed to wane at last. The eyes that had been on him were now focused elsewhere.

Neal went over to his mirror pool, the point of focus he’d been using for so many human generations to watch over the soul now called Peter.

Most of his kind took on the responsibility for several souls, watching over them with casual intent. Neal, however, had elected guardianship of just one soul. Maybe that was why the idea of Peter’s _ending_ was cutting into him.

Even if the Elders didn’t tell him, soon enough there would be a new soul that needed his guardianship. Neal didn’t want a new soul, he wanted Peter. And after so many generations, so many births and deaths and rebirths, so much watching and gently influencing, wanting was more than a cold and intellectual exercise. This wanting was hot, it was perverse, it made his blood sing, his wings shiver in the still air.

It made him reckless.

Neal knew that this wanting was wrong. Not that his kind didn’t _want_ like this – he had a cock and balls and the will to use them, but congress between human and Archon was expressly forbidden. Unless he Fell.

With a wave of his hand, Peter appeared in the clear, still surface. Neal’s wings snapped back and his whole body quivered. Peter was naked, wet from a shower. The mirror pool in his aerie was a portal that linked to glass in the mortal realm, and while Neal could watch his charge through any reflective surface, his favorite was a mirror in Peter’s bathroom.

In this cycle, he’d observed Peter as he grew from an infant to a child to a well-built young man to this mature specimen. It hadn’t always been like this. Sometimes Peter was female, sometimes disease or disaster or bad luck took him from the living before he could grow into the promise of his soul. It wasn’t his responsibility to keep Peter alive, but to provide some subtle influence over the choices he made. Neal had grieved for each life cut off before it reached its potential.

He couldn’t articulate why Peter, in this particular life, drew him, why he made him feel things he shouldn’t, have thoughts that were contrary to the very nature of his kind. Neal knew of only one other Archon who had crossed the very bright line and had taken a mortal, his own charge, as a lover. He did not Fall, he did not make a sacrifice, and the results had been devastating.

The woman had lived, but she had been broken in mind, her soul bleeding and spent from the damage her Archon had inflicted. When she died, madness overtaking her, raving about angels and demons and the babies that had been stolen from her – babies with black wings and gold eyes – her soul ended. The bright spark that had been sustained in life and reborn from age to age had guttered and extinguished.

The perpetrator of this horror did not go unpunished. Matthew was brought back and kept chained in one of the highest caverns in the highest mountains. And as if the chains weren’t enough to keep him confined, his flight feathers had been pulled and the follicles cauterized so they’d never grow back.

In the time before they’d taken on souls to guard, Neal had once called Matthew friend. They had ridden thermals together, flying higher and higher, pressing through layers of the atmosphere until there was almost no air – almost. Matthew used to ask, ‘what is the point of immortality if you never challenge life itself?’ He’d laugh; his black wings and blacker eyes taunting Neal. It was always a competition between them, Matthew pushing him to ride the edge. They’d fly until ice crystalized on the edges of their wings, their blood started to boil in the near-vacuum of space.

Then he’d fold his wings and plunge back into the world, Neal right behind him – a hand outstretched as if he were trying to catch Matthew to keep him from falling.

Now, countless centuries later, the irony of that didn’t escape Neal.

Matthew’s prison wasn’t hard to reach, nor was it particularly well-guarded. A few Archons patrolled the cliff, their sole purpose to make sure that Matthew didn’t leave, not to keep anyone from entering.

Neal nodded to one of the guards and made his way into the cavern where Matthew had lived for centuries.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my old friend, Neal.” Matthew paced out the length of his chain. “It’s been a while.”

Neal tried to hide his shock at Matthew’s appearance. He was fit and trim – that would never change – but tattoos decorated his upper body like dark stains. “Yes, it has.”

“I’ve lost track of the years, but I think this is your first visit in, what, _forever_?”

Neal could almost taste the bitterness in Matthew’s words. “I’ve been busy.”

“Busy, yes … watching over your lone charge. Spending every moment of every day watching that soul through the mirror pools, trying to force your will into it.”

“You, of all of us, should know that’s not how it works.”

“Aww, Neal – still so naive.” Matthew’s look was one of contempt. “What brings you here?”

On the flight, Neal had thought about disguising his reasons for this visit, but Matthew was smart and he’d exploit any lie. Neal knew Matthew well enough to expect that an appeal to his old friend’s sense of superiority might just work.

It also helped that he didn’t come empty handed.

“I need your help.”

Matthew rocked back on his heels. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“No.”

“You forget about me. I’m consigned to this flightless, soulless hell and you have the nerve to come here and ask for my assistance? You haven’t even spoken my name.” Matthew’s wings flexed with barely controlled rage, brushing against the polished walls.

“I never forgot about you, Matthew.” Neal’s voice was quiet, but those last two syllables rang out like thunder.

Matthew settled down on a bench, his wings folded against his back. He stared at Neal, unblinking. Neal tried not to flinch under that dark gaze.

“Tell me about the world. My view, now, is … limited.”

Neal didn’t think his friend was talking about their fellow Archons; little changed from millennia to millennia. He looked around; there was no mirror pool, no glass, nothing transparent through which Matthew could see the mortal realm. “Chaos still reigns. They struggle for peace but commit horrific acts of war. As a species, they are without hope, but as a collection of individuals, they are triumphant.”

“And so, nothing has changed.” Matthew gave him a level look. “And your charge? How is it?”

Neal looked away, but apparently not quick enough. Matthew saw the grief in his eyes. “Peter, the soul’s name this cycle is Peter. And his time is ending. This is his last cycle. That soul will not be reborn.”

Matthew leaned back in shock. “No, no – that’s not supposed to happen.”

Neal slumped, wings dragging in grief as he heard his own words. “But it is – I can feel his ending with every heartbeat. This is his last cycle.”

Matthew reached out and placed a hand over his. Neal almost broke from the unexpected compassion. “They taught us not to love, but how can we not?”

“Others manage.” Neal took a deep breath and tried to steady himself. “Maybe this is my fault, maybe if I’d been less stubborn, if I’d done as the Elders asked...”

“You? Follow orders? Not likely.” A smile curved Matthew’s lips, and from the look of it, that was a rare expression.

They sat companionably and Neal gave into a sudden need. He rested his head against his friend’s shoulder, only to be pushed away violently. He fell to the floor. It wasn’t his ass that hurt, but his cheek, where it had touched Matthew’s skin.

“Matthew?” Neal rubbed his face, not understanding the pain.

“You’re an idiot.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Do you think these marks are meaningless?” Matthew stood over him, wings flared. He gestured at the tattoos on his torso, his shoulder. “They are poison, they are my punishment. My torment.”

Neal was horrified.

“But it’s nothing less than I deserve.” Matthew turned away, resting his head against the wall. “This chain –” He shook his foot and the silver rattled almost musically, “is just for show. If I leave, I won’t have access to the antidote. These marks will complete themselves and my immortality will end.”

Neal got up and went over to him. He carefully rested his hand on unstained skin. “Matthew – I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

“No. I’d say that your asking is enough, but that’s pointless.” Matthew’s feathers rustled, flicking lightly against Neal. The sensation sent a shiver through him. Neal took a liberty and stroked the black plumage, tracing the arc where wing met skin.

Their breathing synchronized and Neal let the peace that was the wellspring of his being flow out of him, trying to ease the other’s torment. He said his name again, an inhalation and exhalation. “Matthew.”

“Neal, don’t.” But Matthew made no move to shake him off.

“Can I give you this?” Neal pressed a kiss where his fingers had traced. Matthew’s skin was warm, but the feathers were cool against his lips.

“Neal – “

“Please, Matthew. Let me.”

“I don’t need your pity.” Matthew growled.

“I don’t pity you. I grieve with you.” Neal kissed him again, just above a tattoo stain on his neck, then on a patch of clear skin behind his ear. “And I want to earn your forgiveness.”

Matthew didn’t respond to that, but he pushed his hips back a little, his ass brushing against Neal’s groin.

Neal kept kissing Matthew, trailing kisses along unstained skin. “Remember when you’d try to fly away; try to leave this place, this time?”

“You were always one wing beat behind me, Neal.”

“I know. Sometimes I wish we’d managed to escape.” Neal bit down on Matthew’s bicep, leaving teeth marks at the edge of one ugly stain. His fingers trailed across Matthew’s belly; they burned when he touched a tattoo, but he didn’t stop, he didn’t shy away.

“There’s no escape, Neal. I’ve learned that, to my sorrow. To my shame.”

“Unless we Fall.” Neal rocked his hips into Matthew’s ass, his cock growing hard.

“I didn’t want to make the sacrifice.” That last word was a sob and Matthew’s wings fluttered around Neal, almost encasing him.

Neal reveled in the silky coolness, the darkness that was so essentially _Matthew_. “I know.” His fingers found the closure on Matthew’s trousers, pulling the tie loose. His hand snaked under the waistband, burning a little as his wrist brushed against one of those poisonous stains. But there was no burn as he wrapped his hand around Matthew’s dick. It throbbed and leaped at his touch and those dark wings fluttered again.

“Neal, please…” Matthew turned his face towards him and Neal captured his mouth. The position was awkward, uncomfortable, but Neal wouldn’t be deterred. Matthew tasted like bitterness, like thwarted joy, like aching loneliness, and Neal almost cried.

He broke the kiss to whisper, “Forgive me.”

This time, Matthew replied, “Always.”

Neal wrapped his free arm around Matthew’s waist and pulled him from the wall, down to the floor. He undid his own trousers and nestled his cock between the other man’s buttocks. It had been a long time since they’d done this and Neal needed to go slowly, to give Matthew as much pleasure as he could.

Matthew rocked back against him, sweat providing just enough lubrication to offset the friction. “Fuck me, Neal. Just fuck me.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You can’t – nothing you can do can hurt me.”

Neal knew that wasn’t the whole truth. Matthew meant that there was nothing he could do that could hurt him more than what was already killing him.

Matthew was on his hands and knees, his wings outstretched, thighs parted. “Do it, Neal. I need you.”

He hesitated, and Matthew repeated the demand. Neal spat into his palm and rubbed his cock before pressing it against Matthew’s hole. The contact sent a jolt through him, a bright memory of old pleasures, and he pushed forward. The path was slow, but he was relentless, inexorable. Matthew whined and pushed back, taking the last inch.

Neal paused, relishing the heat surrounding his cock and the coolness of feathers along his torso as he leaned against Matthew’s back. He rocked his hips, a teasing motion, and Matthew grunted, a sound of purest pleasure.

Neal reared back, his own wings snapping open, beating in time with his thrusts. His hands burned as they gripped flesh marked by Matthew’s torment. He didn’t know if the poison could transfer to him, but he didn’t care. This was Matthew, his friend and wing mate for so many years. His wings churned the air, lifting them aloft. Matthew’s wings beat, too, and their feathers tangled – bright and dark – and the pleasure was too much for Neal. He climaxed in Matthew, shouting his joy. Matthew’s cries followed soon after and they both collapsed to the cold, polished stone floor.

Neal pulled out of Matthew, hissing in painful pleasure. It wasn’t easy, but he managed to turn him over so they faced each other. Neal wanted to hold Matthew, he didn’t care about the pain that would bring, but Matthew held him at arm’s length. They lay there, staring at each other.

Matthew’s lips curled in a half-smile – a smirk, but his eyes were gentle, the anger that had glowed so hotly when Neal had first arrived was replaced by patient resignation. “You wanted something from me, and somehow I don’t think it was just my ass.”

“But your ass is so splendid.” Neal leaned in and kissed him, his tongue licking, questing – finding not the tang of bitterness, but the sharp sweetness of remembered joy.

Matthew kissed him back and Neal wondered what he tasted in him.

And despite Matthew’s arm holding him at a slight distance, Neal was pressing against him from shoulder to hip. The tattoos burned like fire, but he didn’t let Matthew pull away. He could bear this torment for a few more heartbeats.

Matthew finally bit his lip hard enough and Neal let go.

“You really are an idiot.”

Neal looked down at himself – his skin was red and would probably blister. When he looked at Matthew’s chest, he gasped. One of the tattoos, the one that had covered the left side of his chest, from collar bone to nipple, had retreated by two finger-widths.

Matthew touched the now-clear skin and shook his head. “Don’t read anything into this, Neal. It means nothing. I’m still damned.” He stood up and tied the closure on his trousers before holding out a hand to Neal.

As Neal redid his own clothing, he remembered that he had brought something for Matthew – he’d intended it as a bargaining tool but now realized how cruel that would be.

“What are you thinking?”

Neal looked up, abashed. “I have a gift for you, but I don’t know if you should have it.”

Matthew gave a huff of laughter. “You’re really something. As well as an idiot. Give it to me and I’ll give you what you came here for.”

Neal pulled a small mirror-like disc from his pocket. It was the size of his thumbnail, a piece of ancient technology that was so unnecessary elsewhere in a world where any transparent surface could access their other world – the world they watched over. But such surfaces were prohibited in Matthew’s cloister.

So, he brought this one thing – a small bit of storage – something to be used once and then spent in that usage. It wasn’t forbidden, not precisely.

“Neal?” Matthew looked at the disc in Neal’s palm. His fingers closed around the disc, but Matthew reached out and grabbed Neal’s wrist, forcing his fingers open.

He took the disc and held it up to the light.

“It was a mistake to bring it – “

Matthew gave him a sharp look, as if he suddenly realized what that disc held.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

Matthew didn’t say anything; he put the disc on a small ledge cut out of the stone wall and murmured a word.

Music filled the cavern, a brief glissando of harp strings before a single, plaintive voice began:

 

  
_Adonai ro-i, lo eḥsar._  
Bin’ot deshe yarbitseini,  
Al mei m’nuḥot y’nahaleini,  
Naf’shi y’shovev,  
Yan’ḥeini b’ma’aglei tsedek,  
L’ma’an sh’mo. >

The singer was young, but her voice had the power to reach into the soul.

A sweet choir of sopranos wove in difficult harmony, supporting the soloist, never overpowering her. Neal watched Matthew, watched as grief overwhelmed him. The bass choir erupted in a burst of dissonance and Matthew fell to his knees, pounding his fists against the stone floor.

Neal knew he couldn’t go to his friend, that there was nothing he could do that would bring solace to him right now.

The music played on, the choirs battling between light and dark, between peace and war, and over everything, the soloist’s voice rose, a voice of hope and innocence.

 

_Ach tov vaḥesed_  
Yird’funi kol y’mei ḥayai  
V’shav’ti b’veit Adonai  
L’orech yamim

The soprano’s voice faded, the timpani darkly echoing the martial line, and the piece ended. Silence reigned briefly, breaking under Matthew’s harsh sob.

“Of everything you could have given me, you had to give me _this_. Kate’s voice.” Matthew beat his fist against the floor again.

Neal swallowed and went to his friend, this time not knowing how to give comfort. “I’m sorry, Matthew. I’m so sorry.”

Matthew sobbed again and Neal rested his hand on the man’s shoulders – repeating the touch he’d given earlier, but with far different intent. “Tell me, if you can, tell me.”

Matthew shook out his wings, pushing Neal away in a wash of cool darkness. He didn’t retreat far, just to the wall where he’d placed the disc – now dissolved into a small pile of bright dust. He blew on it and it scattered, catching the light before falling into invisibility.

Neal joined him and they sat down again. Matthew sighed and shook his head. “This is what you came for, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Why do you need to know what happened?”

“Peter – “

“Your charge, that lone soul you’ve been watching over?”

“Yes.”

“Name. Names.” That was all Matthew said.

“As I said, this is his final turn. He ends with this cycle.” Neal didn’t hide his grief. “I can’t bear the thought of losing him.”

Matthew jumped up, wings arching back, the chain around his ankle clanking against the stone. He paced the length of the cavern once, twice. Neal watched and worried. But he said nothing.

Matthew returned to his side but didn’t sit down again. He stared at Neal, a wildness in his eyes. “You want to Fall?”

Neal nodded. “I can’t continue without him. They will want me to take on a new soul. Maybe more than one, but I can’t. Can you understand that?”

Matthew licked his lips. “You’re braver than I was. I didn’t want to Fall. I didn’t want to end everything. I wanted Kate and I wanted to live forever, too.”

“I know. You broke the Law.”

“But that’s not why I’m kept here.” Matthew shook his chain. “The Law you’re thinking of is meaningless. We’ve walked amongst the humans far more often than you’d imagine. Without penalty.”

“The Elders – “

“They have their reasons, some good, some unutterably stupid, for perpetuating the lie. But living amongst our charges without making the sacrifice and Falling isn’t the real crime.”

Neal felt himself shaking. “What did you do, Matthew?” Once again, the name rang with purpose through the stone.

“It isn’t sex, either. The Elders tell us that joining with the mortals will bring disaster – but that is a lie, too.”

“Then what is it?” Neal swallowed. He was, for the first time, afraid.

“We cannot speak their names, Neal.” His own name fell from Matthew’s lips and the sound was like a bright bell.

Neal felt a hint of understanding; it was there, but just beyond his grasp.

“When we say our charge’s name – the name they carry in their mortal life, we’re not just saying their name in this life. We are speaking the true name of their soul and when they hear it, it awakes every memory of every life they’ve ever lived, and every life they are supposed to live. Therein lies the madness. When I called her ‘Kate’, it was as if I was saying her true name in the Eternal tongue. If you call your charge ‘Peter,’ you will destroy him.”

Comprehension was devastating. “We speak their name and time shatters.”

“Yes, and nothing can repair that rift. All of their lives bleed through into a single instant and they are too frail, too fragile to cope with that.” Matthew gripped Neal's shoulders, his eyes pleading. “I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t. If I had, I wouldn’t have … Kate was everything to me. I couldn’t stay away from her, but if I’d known, if I’d known … “

He released Neal and paced back and forth, wings stirring the air. As Neal watched, the darkness on Matthew’s skin grew – the places where it had receded after Neal had touched him were again black. He screamed in agony, he screamed “Kate” and his wings beat the air in a futile attempt at flight.

An Archon wearing a tunic in Healer’s green, entered the chamber. She injected something into Matthew’s belly and the blackness stopped growing, but it didn’t shrink back either. She turned to Neal. “You need to leave. Deep emotions empower the toxin. If he stays calm, he will have more time.” At that, she left as quietly as she arrived.

Rage turned Neal’s vision black. Whatever Matthew’s crimes were, this wasn’t a punishment he deserved.

Matthew stood there, panting and defeated. Neal didn’t want to leave, but clearly, he couldn’t stay. Slowly, deliberately, he placed his bare palm along the black stain on Matthew’s arm. He held it there despite the acid bite of pain.

Matthew reached up and gripped his wrist, holding him there for just a moment longer. “Thank you, Neal. For _everything_.”

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

 

The decision, when Peter finally made it, was surprisingly freeing. He’d thought he’d be like Reese, all but forcibly ejected from the Bureau, made to retire because of his age. He didn’t expect his departure to be precipitated by some sub-rosa disgrace.

There were going to be a million details to wrap up, of course. He’d been on suspension after the Pratt shooting, and it was like being cut loose and set adrift without any way to make it back to shore. Other than showing up for endless interrogations, he’d spent six long weeks of doing nothing.

But his letter of resignation to the Director triggered a hell of a lot of interesting events.

Fowler and his investigation just melted away like ice in the summer sun. Before he could change his mind, Peter had sent his notice in a little after nine in the morning and showed up for another scheduled interview with OPR shortly after noon. Fowler was there, but the room – which just yesterday had been filled with cartons of evidence – was now empty.

“What’s going on?”

Fowler shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care. Got orders a few hours ago that this investigation was closed and I’m to head back to D.C. to work on another case. Nothing to do with you.”

“Closed? I don’t understand.”

“Apparently the higher ups have decided to accept your version of the shooting. They now believe what you said about James Bennett, that he’d convinced you that he’d been set up by Terrance Pratt thirty years ago to take the fall for killing another cop. That when the evidence proved otherwise, he grabbed your gun and shot the Senator.”

That was the truth, except there was a lot more to it than that. The senator was far from innocent. While James Bennett was truly the man who shot his supervising officer nearly thirty years ago, it was Terrance Pratt who set the circumstances in motion. Bennett was just a pawn in the game that Pratt had been playing for three decades. And sometimes, pawns can take down the king.

“Forensics is done with your gun. You can retrieve it whenever you want to. According to the brass, I’m supposed to give this back to you.” Fowler pushed an envelope across the table.

Peter took the envelope and opened it. It was his badge and FBI credentials. “Why? Why now?”

Fowler shrugged. “Dunno. The answer to that question is above my pay grade.” Fowler held out his hand, a surprisingly genial smile on his face. “Take care of yourself, Burke. You’re a good agent. None of this was personal. I was just doing my job.”

Bemused, Peter shook the man’s hand and watched him leave. He clipped the badge onto his belt and tucked the identification folder into his jacket pocket. Everything felt as it was supposed to, but Peter knew that wasn’t going to last. He hadn’t heard back from the Director’s office yet, other than the automated confirmation that his message had been received. But there was no reason to believe that anything had changed. He was still _persona non grata_ in the Bureau. The Pratt investigation had closed because he was resigning – no, make that retiring. The powers that be had no need to continue to throw mud at him if he wasn’t going to be around.

He went over to the Forensics lab, and as Fowler had promised, they were finished with his gun and gave it back to him. The firing mechanism had been disabled and would need to be replaced, but it wasn’t as if he was going to have any need to use it at this moment or any moment in the immediate future.

Peter debated about going to the office; he worried about what type of signal that would send to his staff. Well, not his staff anymore. No – they were _still_ his people until the Bureau said otherwise.

He went up to the twenty-first floor and stepped into the office like it was an ordinary day. Clinton saw him first, and the smile on the man’s face was bright enough to compete with the lights in Times Square. Diana looked up at that moment, too – and soon the whole team was on its feet, clapping. He was mobbed and hugged by his staff; they shook his hand so vigorously that he thought it might fall off.

Peter hated to say anything, but he couldn’t let this continue. Diana must have seen something on his face. She frowned at him.

“Boss?”

Peter let out a deep sigh.

“Peter?” That was from Clinton.

“I’m back, but just for a short while – just today. I’ve decided to … retire.” Peter spoke loud enough that everyone could hear him.

There was a collective gasp from the staff.

He might as well do this now, before it got too painful. Peter held up a hand to forestall any comments. “You are the best group of agents anyone could ever work with. It’s been an honor and a privilege to work with you, to have you at my back, to watch yours.” He swallowed hard against the tears that threatened. “Do good things, everyone.”

The room fell silent. Peter ducked his head before turning and heading up the short flight of stairs to his office. There was a pile of mail on his chair – most of it probably garbage, since his caseload had been assigned to other agents. Besides, little evidence arrived by way of the US Postal Service these days.

For shits and giggles, he booted up his computer and logged in. There was a warning that his access was restricted and his activities were monitored. Naturally.

And naturally, his email inbox was nearly empty. In fact, there was just a single message there – the notice from the Administrator’s Office regarding his impending “retirement.” Peter opened it and tried not to laugh. He was to report to the Human Resources department for out-processing by four-thirty this afternoon. And not to forget to bring his badge and his identification.

His credentials had to be turned in, but he’d be allowed to keep his badge, except that they punched a hole in the gold shield so he couldn’t use it anymore. Peter was tempted to tell them to put it through the recycler. It wasn’t like he wanted it.

No, that wasn’t true. He desperately wanted it. It represented everything he was.

Peter stared at the message and he thought about Reese’s offer. It wouldn’t be that hard to slip into a slightly different role. He could look at it like a full-time, life-long undercover assignment. That’s what Reese had done. He sighed and scrubbed at his eyes, unable to make any sort of decision.

“Boss?”

Peter looked up. Diana and Clinton were hovering in his doorway. He gestured and they entered, shutting the door behind them. Peter didn’t know what to say. Of all the agents on his team, these two meant the most to him and he couldn’t help but feel like he’d let them down by retiring.

Clinton spoke first. “Six weeks ago, when you were suspended, we told you that we’d stand beside you – that we were as much a part of what happened as you were. You told us not to get involved, that falling on our swords would be a waste of two good agents. We shouldn’t have listened to you. This isn’t right.”

Diana picked up the argument. “We can fix this. We can keep fighting.”

Peter shook his head and cut them off. “This is not something that can be fixed, Di. This part of my life is over. The fight is over.”

“Peter – ” He almost hated the way Clinton said his name, with respect and a touch of exasperation. “You can’t just give up like this.”

He shrugged. “I haven’t given up.”

“So, retiring is a strategic retreat?” Diana actually sounded angry.

“That’s a good way to put it.”

“You have something in the works?” She looked over at Clinton, like they’d discussed this already.

“Maybe.” He certainly couldn’t tell them about Reese’s offer.

“We want to go with you. Wherever you go.” Diana and Clinton actually spoke those words simultaneously.

Their loyalty stabbed him through the heart. He just shook his head. “You can’t.”

“Why not?” Of course, Diana pressed at him.

“Because you two are the future of this office. You’re the best agents I’ve ever trained, I’ve ever worked with, and whatever issues I have with the Bureau have nothing to do with you. You owe your loyalty to the Bureau, to this division, not to me.” Peter gave them a wry smile. “I can’t tell you how much your offer means to me, but I can’t allow you to make that choice.”

Neither agent looked convinced. “We have free will and we’re not slaves. If we want to leave, we can.” Diana was speaking for both of them.

“Yes, you can. You have every right to, but you’d be stupid to do that. And if there’s one thing I know you aren’t, it’s stupid.”

They grumbled at him, he made them promise to keep in touch, and then he shooed them out of his office. It was time to go.

Peter shut down his computer and looked around his office. There were a few personal items he wanted to take – his college diploma and a few framed certificates, a picture of him and Elizabeth that he could never bear to put away, a pen and pencil set his parents had given him when he graduated college. All of it fit into a single box with room to spare. He dumped his now useless gun in there, too. Peter looked around the room – the place that had defined him for so long – and felt a deep pang of sorrow. It was another death, only this time; there were no prayers to be said. There was no ceremony for him, no gravestone to mark his passage. Just some paperwork to sign.

How appropriate.

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

“You went to see Matthew. That was not wise, Neal. Not wise at all.”

Neal looked up from the mirror pool and smiled. The Archon who’d just invaded his aerie was a welcome guest, despite the fierceness of her statement. “June.” He went over to her and was enveloped in a tight hug, which he returned, his hands carefully avoiding her delicate plumage. “Since when have I been known for my wisdom?”

She pulled him over to the ledge that ringed the mirror pool and they sat down. She didn’t let go of his hand; her strength was not one of muscle and bone, but filled with the power of the Elders, and regardless of her status, Neal would never show her such disrespect as pulling his hand free.

“I’d ask what brings you here, but you’ve already made that clear.”

“Of all the Archons you could have gone to, Matthew should have been the last on your list.”

“And maybe that’s why I needed to talk with him first.”

“He will only bring you pain, Neal.”

“He’s my friend, and he’s dying by inches. Your punishment is torture.”

“You should have better friends, Neal. Matthew destroyed a human soul. The soul given into his care, a soul he had been watching over for centuries. He is getting what he deserves, no more, no less.” June’s anger was unyielding.

Neal didn’t agree. “Then why not kill him outright? Slow poison and an antidote to ensure he stays caged and passive? That’s not justice, that’s revenge.”

June just shook her head. “We will have to agree to disagree on that, Neal.”

Her answer was unacceptable to the very core of his being. Neal gently pulled his hand free and paced by the glass. In his agitation, he couldn’t stop his wings from extending and they quivered with the emotion he couldn’t contain.

“Exert some self-control, Neal. This outrage does you no good.”

It took some effort, but he calmed down. June was right, behaving like a fledgling, immature and uncontrolled, would only harm his cause.

“Can you help me?”

June tilted her head and looked at him. Her gaze seemed to bore through all the layers of his being, into his very essence. He felt flayed, naked, all his truths exposed.

“There are a million reasons why I should not. You have to realize that if you continue on your chosen course, Matthew’s punishment is one you could share.”

“Only if I ruin Peter’s soul.” Neal took a deep breath and committed himself. “Only if I speak his name. Only if I seek him out without making the sacrifice.” His words rang against the stone walls, the truth of his intent undeniable.

“Do you understand what that will mean to you?”

His assent was voiceless, wordless.

June’s whole posture softened. “My dear Neal, I know what it means to grieve, to lose someone you have watched over for so long. But the consequences of your actions will not be easy to live with.”

Neal shook his head. “I love him. I can’t continue without him. How many times will I have to say that before you understand?”

“I have loved my charges, too.”

Neal shook with the force of his emotions “The souls you’ve watch over will be reborn. They will take root and flourish in another life, another time. When Peter dies in this life, his soul dies forever.”

Maybe his words finally penetrated, but her warnings took on a different tone, one of sorrow. “If you do this, you cannot come back. You will be mortal and all of your gifts will be taken from you. You will become a shadow of who you are. You will be silent, flightless, powerless. You will be alone. You will, in time, die.”

“I will have Peter.”

The look June gave him was frightening – both fierce and pitying. “You will be silent and Peter is but a mortal. He has no perceptions beyond the limits of dense matter. He will not _see_ you for what you were, he will not understand what you mean to him and he may look at you and walk away.”

“I know.” Neal wasn’t giving up, despite the danger he faced.

“You could end up wrecked, living out the remainder of your allotted time alone. You will have no armor against the mortal world. You know what they are like, Neal. You know that you will be vulnerable, easily damaged, made to suffer for the simple reason that you can suffer. The human world is filled with petty evil and you could be an easy target.”

“June, I’ve told you – I’m willing to risk that. I can’t _not_ take the chance.”

“And if I did not care for you as I do, I would walk away and let you Fall into the mortal world unprepared. There is no one in this realm for whom I care for as much as you, and if I did not counsel you against this course, I would be failing in my love for you.”

Neal ducked his head, accepting the wisdom of her words. But despite June’s love and wisdom, he was not going to change his course. He’d Fall with or without her help.

“My dear boy – ”

“June, please don’t say anything more.”

“There is nothing more to say. I can see your determination in your eyes.” She smiled, sad and resigned. “I will miss you; there are many others who will miss you. Not just for your potential, but for who you are.”

Neal took a deep breath, trying to quell the surge of emotion. “I will miss you, too.”

June brushed a kiss on his lips, a gesture of farewell, and Neal thought she was about to leave, but she didn’t. Instead, she cupped his cheek and then her hand slid down, resting a moment on his jaw, before curving around his throat. “Say the name of the soul you love. Say its name.”

“Peter.” The sound rang through the room, echoing against the walls, the syllables like bells, like claps of thunder, like the noise of creation.

“Again, say his name again.”

“Peter.” This time, the world didn’t shake, but peace and happiness rang through him and every feather in his wings quivered. Although his feet didn’t leave the ground, he felt airborne for the space of that sound on his lips.

“Again, Neal. One last time.”

“Peter.” There was sound and then nothing. He spoke the name again and heard the word only in his mind. He accepted the binding.

June kissed him again, completing the sacrifice.

Neal mouthed the words “thank you” but heard nothing but puffs of air.

“Now you must Fall.” She let go of his throat and gestured to the ledge that surrounded the mirror pool.

Neal stepped up, his wings fluttering a little to give him balance. For all their ubiquity in this realm, the mirror pools were dangerous places, holding enough power to damage through careless contact. An Archon could see into the mortal realm through any polished surface, but nothing provided as much clarity as a mirror pool. Neal looked at the swirling chaos and then at June, and she nodded. “Do not be afraid. Remember your love.”

He finally understood.

Neal furled his wings tight against his body and closed his eyes, thinking of Peter and the last time he saw him. The man was tired and sad, the losses in his life weighing him down. He remembered Peter in happier times in this life – a boy playing games with his father, a young man seeking wisdom in books and numbers, an adult discovering pleasure with lovers of both sexes, then falling deeply in love with a woman and knowing that she was the one person who’d complete him. Neal put Peter’s happiness in the front of his mind; he embraced the happiness of all the lives he’d watched, the memories that accumulated across the centuries, and he took a deep breath and let go.

Neal Fell through the brightness, he Fell through the universe, he Fell and was reborn in pain and love and purpose.

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

 

_And what do you plan to do with the rest of your life, Peter Burke?_

That was the question he kept asking himself, as he walked out of the Federal Building and down to the subway. He shifted the box he was carrying and asked himself what he was going to do for the next thirty years. He found a seat on the A train – it was midday and the subway car was nearly empty – and he asked himself that question as the train swayed against a curve in the tracks. He transferred at the Borough Hall station and asked himself that question. He kept asking that question with every step he took from the subway exit to his house.

He dumped the box on the floor beside the entrance and waited a moment for Satchmo, but his dog was gone, like his wife, like his life, and he wondered how much longer he’d continue to wait for the greeting that would never come.

After Elizabeth died, after her family returned to their homes, after all the well-meaning people went back to their lives, Peter had tried to take comfort from Satchmo. He’d relaxed the rules that El had insisted on, allowing the dog on the couch, inviting him upstairs and into the bedroom. But like Peter, Satchmo was never the same after El died. He rarely stirred from his dog bed, he barely ate, and Peter knew that it was only a matter of time. One morning, a few months after that terrible day, he came downstairs to find Satchmo gone. Like El – quietly, and leaving him just as shattered by his passing.

Peter went up to his bedroom and stripped out of his suit, shirt and tie. He balled everything up and dumped it into the bag for the dry cleaners, wondering if he should even bother. It wasn’t like he’d need to put on a suit again. Clad in old jeans and an even older Harvard sweatshirt, he headed back downstairs.

Time to start the rest of his life.

Par for the course, Peter had no appetite. That was nothing new these days. He ate because he needed fuel, not because he enjoyed it. He seemed to exist on coffee in the mornings and beer at night and maybe a sandwich in between, but most days, he couldn’t remember if he actually ate the food that his agents brought him. For a while, he had groceries delivered, but the service cancelled his contract the fifth time they tried to make a delivery and he wasn’t home. Peter supposed that was only fair. He couldn’t remember the last time he had turned on the oven; he barely used the kitchen that El had once taken such pride in.

Not for the first time, Peter thought about selling the house. He knew he could get a ridiculous amount of money for it. He’d have enough to retire in comfort and buy a place on the coast, or even back where he grew up and live very well on the rest. Hell, he could go find some small town upstate and run for sheriff or mayor and make a new life for himself away from the memories of everything he’d lost.

He could even get a new dog. Maybe go to a shelter and adopt an animal as lost as he was and give it a home. And if he did move back to the country, he could raise horses and never have to think about mortgage fraud or antitrust cases or securities violations ever again. He could be Peter Burke, Gentleman Farmer.

As fantasies went, it wasn’t a bad one. Except that he couldn’t see himself leaving this house, the last tangible piece of the life he was supposed to have had.

He sorted through the mail. Most of it was junk. The only thing worth saving was the bill from the private mailbox place he’d been using for the past few years. The contract on the box was expiring and needed to be renewed before the end of the month.

He had a CI – wait, he’d _had_ a CI because he wasn’t an officer of the law anymore and civilians don’t have or need confidential informants – and the man, who went by the name Mozzie or Moz, was a paranoid genius with delusions of persecution. He refused to communicate by cellphone (something about brain cancer), or regular landlines (the NSA weren’t the only ones listening), and while the U.S. Postal Service was a branch of Big Brother, he took refuge in the fact that regular mail had built-in fail safes against random governmental intrusion. There was just too much of it to open and scan without generating all sorts of suspicions. Moz would only contact him through “snail mail” and Peter wasn’t willing to give him his home address, although he suspected that the man knew it. Hence the private post office box, which he kept under the name of Peter Suit, per Moz’s instructions.

Mozzie would, when he needed to see him, send him tickets to a concert, usually a performance of religious music. Always two seats, and if there was assigned seating, it was always on the aisle. Peter would leave one ticket at the Will-Call and the man would appear just before the performance started, just before the doors closed. He’d sit next to Peter, not say a word until the intermission. Sometimes he’d hand him a package and leave. Sometimes he’d pass information on to him without looking at him. Sometimes, the little guy would be in a chatty mood and tell him about his latest project or conspiracy theory throughout the intermission, then disappear just before the lights went down.

Peter honestly enjoyed his encounters with the little guy. He’d come into his life shortly after Elizabeth died and for a few minutes every couple of months, Moz sort of filled the great big gaping hole in his life.

He looked at the bill and tossed it in the ‘to be paid’ pile. He’d keep the box for another year, it wasn’t that much money and he needed a way to get in contact with the little guy, even for one last time, to tell him that he didn’t need the information he provided anymore. Peter wondered if they could keep in contact, if just for old time’s sake.

He opened the refrigerator and grimaced, it was as empty as it had been last night. More so, because he and Reese had finished off the last two beers. There was just that sprouted onion and the odd assortment of condiments. Peter didn’t bother with the freezer.

There was a bottle of Johnny Walker Black in the credenza in the living room. He’d made it a point to avoid hard liquor, too aware that it could be an easy path to his destruction. But he had something to celebrate tonight. No, something to mourn, and even if he didn’t have anyone to share his grief with, he still deserved a damn drink.

He poured the Scotch – two fingers, no more – over ice and took it out to the patio and sat down. The question that dogged him all the way home was still relentlessly echoing in his brain. He was fifty years old, a twenty-two year veteran of the FBI, in excellent health according to his last physical, and unless he contracted a fatal, untreatable disease or got hit by a bus, the odds were that he was going to live at least another twenty-five, maybe thirty years.

_So, what the hell are you going to do with the rest of your life, Peter Burke?_ He’d been asking himself that for hours but he still had no answers.

The moon had just risen over the trees and he leaned back in the chair and watched the sky. He and El had loved this little bit of space, just large enough to hold a table and chairs, a two-seater swing, a barbecue grill and a little patch of grass that needed cutting once every few weeks in the summer. Their neighbors had trees, but they were far enough back that they didn’t completely obscure the view of the night sky.

Summer nights, he and El would sit out here and watch the fireflies dance. Brooklyn, even their almost-suburban neighborhood, was still too close to the city and all but the brightest stars were swallowed by the light pollution. That never mattered to El. She loved the moon and they’d often stay out and watch its passage across the night sky.

He used to call her his moon goddess, and he’d be content to spend the rest of eternity worshipping her. El would laugh, her eyes sparkling in the moonlight, and tell him he was such a silly, romantic man. She didn’t want to be worshipped like a goddess. She wanted to be loved like a woman.

Peter sipped at the Scotch, hating the taste, hating the burn, hating the loneliness, the emptiness, and the abrupt absence of purpose in his life.

He looked up and marked the passage of the moon. It was halfway across the sky. Had that much time passed?

A strange sound filled the night. Not the roar of a jet on approach to Kennedy. Not the rumble of a truck as it careened too fast up the street. No, this was a strange cacophony of sounds – birds and beasts calling out to the world, all the leaves left on the trees rattling in harmony with their desiccated brethren skittering along the street.

And then a crash.

Just like that, out of the clear night sky, a man fell into his backyard.

 

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Falling was painful, but it was a pain he could endure. And to be truthful, Falling wasn’t nearly as painful as landing. The ground came up to meet him with a rush that he’d not expected. This wasn’t the first time he’d fallen from such a great height. As a fledgling Archon, he’d tumbled out of the sky plenty of times, landing on surfaces a lot harder, a lot less forgiving than this small patch of greenery.

Of course, he’d had his wings then, he’d had his immortality and his strength. Now, he had a pair of trousers and nothing else.

Except Peter.

He’d Fallen and he’d landed, right where he was supposed to be.

 

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Peter looked at the glass in his hand; it was still three-quarters full of Scotch. He wasn’t drunk, not by any stretch of the imagination. Except that his imagination seemed to be working in overdrive. A man had just fallen out of the sky and landed on his tiny patch of grass.

By rights, he should be reaching for his gun, or his cell phone, or rushing over to the body. Because it had to be a dead body falling from an airplane. Men didn’t drop out of the sky like that.

And crazier still, it wasn’t a dead body, but a living one, wearing a pair of pants and not much else. It – he – rolled over, sat up, rubbed his shoulder, his back, his ass – as if he’d simply fallen out of a tree or off a ladder or tumbled down a short flight of stairs.

“What the hell?”

At his exclamation, the man turned, looked at him and smiled. Peter felt like he was hit by a baseball bat. Or like he’d brushed up against a live wire. His head started to ring; his blood ran hot, then cold, then hot again.

The stranger’s grin broadened, and in the bright moonlight, it seemed like an expression of purest happiness. Another jolt rocketed through Peter, something he hadn’t felt for a long, long time.

_Life._

He was alive. Truly alive – not just a sack of meat and bones existing from day to day.

He found himself smiling back, feeling like a fool. He was standing on his patio, grinning at a crazy stranger who had just dropped out of the sky. He should be reaching for his gun, pointing it and shouting at the intruder to raise his hands, or to lie on his stomach, or to stay still, not move. He should be calling the police and having him arrested for trespassing.

But his gun was in a box on the floor by the doorway, and even though it defied all logic, Peter couldn’t think of a single reason why this man was a threat to him.

He held his hands down and out, as if the stranger was a wild animal, and approached. “Who are you?”

The man smiled and shook his head.

“What’s your name?”

Again, just the smile and the head shake.

“Can’t you talk?”

This time, the man mouthed a word. Peter’s lip-reading skills were rusty, but it was obvious what the word was. Great, a half-naked mute man fell out of the sky and landed in his backyard. A perfect way to end one of the worst days of his life. And yet, it did feel perfect. Not perfectly normal or perfectly wonderful. But perfectly strange in its reasonableness.

“Are you okay?”

The man nodded and Peter held out his hand. The stranger grasped it, his touch like a shot of electricity. Peter gasped but he didn’t let go, pulling the other man to his feet. All of Peter’s questions – born of his intensely practical nature – were forgotten as they stood there, eye to eye. The stranger’s clasp was now warm, human, and oddly comforting. In that simple touch, he felt his fears, his anxieties, all the hurt and resentment that had been accumulating over the last few months just evaporate.

In a single heartbeat, his life changed. All he wanted to do was get to know this man better, to invite him into his home and keep him close. Peter looked into this man’s eyes and wanted to break every rule to which he lived his life.

Peter finally withdrew his hand and stepped back. Not because he really wanted to let go, but because it seemed so damn stupid to be standing in his backyard, holding onto a stranger like they were long-lost friends finally reunited.

_And where the hell did that thought come from?_

The stranger kept smiling, but as he put some distance between them, the smile dimmed just a little and Peter found he wanted to weep from the loss. “Come on, let’s go inside.” He put a hand on the man’s shoulder, and again there was that brief jolt of electricity.

The man paused at the door, as if he wasn’t sure what to do, and Peter stepped around him, then just tugged him across the threshold.

Peter was distracted by the unfamiliar sound of ringing bells. It was way too late for the neighborhood carillons to be tolling, but with all the strangeness tonight, anything was possible.

He closed the back door and got his first good look at his unexpected guest in bright light. Again, his breath caught in his throat. He was not struck simply by the man’s physical beauty, but at the incredible tattoo across his back. He’d never seen anything like it – wings with feathers in such incredible detail that it was almost too much for the eye to take in.

“Your art – it’s exquisite.” Peter loved body art like this – and this was truly art – but he couldn’t imagine lasting through the countless hours needed to complete the process, of lying still and enduring the pain.

The man looked over his shoulder and then at Peter, confused. Did he not know about the tattoo? How was that possible?

Peter took him over to the mirror above the fireplace, turned him around and turned his head so he could see his back.

His guest – and Peter really needed to learn his name soon – still seemed surprised by the ink. But he seemed even more surprised by his own appearance. He turned to face the mirror and stared into it, even reaching out and touching the glass. Touching and immediately withdrawing his hand, as if he were afraid the mirror would harm him. But he overcame that fear and placed his right palm against the glass and then his left, pressing gently. The mirror swayed a bit and he stepped back, startled. But he still didn’t lose his fascination with the reflection.

Peter was reminded of a documentary he’d once seen about primates when first confronted with their reflection. His guest’s reaction was nothing like that. He seemed to completely understand what the mirror was, but he didn’t recognize himself in it.

That worried Peter. And yet he couldn’t help but be amused by his worry – of all the things to be concerned about, the man’s failure to recognize himself was probably the least important.

“Are you hungry?” Peter asked, more for something to say than for any particular desire to feed his guest.

The man shrugged again. But Peter’s stomach chose that moment to rumble and he clapped a hand over it to stifle the embarrassing noise. But his embarrassment was shared, as his guest’s stomach made a similar sound. Peter laughed and maybe the man did too, but no sound emerged.

“How does pizza sound?” Peter picked up the phone. “Cheese, of course. Do you want sausage? Pepperoni? Onions? I’ll have anything but pineapple and green pepper on my pizza.” He wondered why he was even asking – would a person who didn’t recognize themselves in a mirror have any clue about pizza toppings? Or was he being stupid?

“Can you write?” Peter scrounged for a pad and pencil, his innate practicality overtaking the momentary bout of whimsy. He found what he was looking for in the kitchen junk drawer and pushed it towards the man and watched as he picked them up. The guy fumbled with the pencil for a moment and Peter’s heart sank. But a second later, he was holding it and writing something.

No, not writing – drawing. Almost faster than his eye could follow, there was an extraordinarily detailed sketch of a pizza, with cheese, mushrooms, olives, pepperoni and what looked like bits of crumbled sausage. How the hell did he manage this – It looked like a photograph. And to draw the exact pizza he’d order if his choices were the only ones that mattered? All Peter could say was “Okay – this works.”

Peter placed the order and asked them to deliver a six-pack with the pizza. He winced at the total – the pizza parlor was charging him almost twenty bucks for the beer, about three times the cost if he’d picked it up at the bodega down the block. But he didn’t want to leave his guest alone.

It wasn’t like he was afraid that he was going to rob him or go through his stuff. Peter just had this need to keep the man in his line of sight. Which was ridiculous. Utterly, completely ridiculous. He was almost tempted to call the pizza place back and tell them not to deliver, that he’d pick up the order.

Except that he got caught in his guest’s gaze and all thoughts about pizza and beer were forgotten. A memory teased at him and he tried to grasp it. It seemed important but the harder he chased it, the more elusive it became. He blinked, deliberately breaking eye-contact, and tried to think of something to say. Something like, “Are you cold? Would you like a shirt?”

The man nodded and Peter rummaged around in the basket of clean laundry sitting next to the couch. He’d been meaning to fold and bring it upstairs for the better part of a week, but like most of the time he did the laundry, it sat unfolded until he grabbed whatever he needed from the basket. He pulled out an FBI Academy sweatshirt. It really wasn’t twenty-plus years old. He’d bought it at the company store a few years ago when he’d been down there for some training and had gotten caught short in the apparel department. It was a size too small and he rarely wore it, but he’d gone for a run a few days ago and it was the only clean sweatshirt in his drawer.

He handed it to the man and was almost relieved as the tattoo and the rest of his pale, perfect flesh disappeared under the heather-gray fabric.

One problem solved. Time to tackle another. “Do you have a name?”

His guest nodded.

_Thank god._ Peter pushed the pencil and paper back to him. “Can you write it for me? I have to call you _something_.”

Although the man seemed bound to silence, the room filled with laughter. He took the pencil and paper and wrote out his name. Four letters. But they looked like no letters he’d ever seen before. There was something vaguely tribal about the shapes, or maybe Celtic. Peter blinked and the letters re-formed into something readable.

“Neal.”

He spoke the name and all the glassware in the cabinets shook and rattled musically. Peter looked around, startled at the sound, but was more intrigued by the mystery of the man before him. “Your name is Neal?”

The man – Neal – nodded and smiled.

Progress. Thank goodness.

“What happened to you?”

Neal gestured, lifting his hand and bringing it down, his fingers making a fluttering motion.

“You fell?”

Again, a nod.

“From where?” Peter had heard of people who’d stowed away in the wheel housings of big airplanes, dying from the exposure and the altitude and falling back to earth when the plane lowered the landing gear.

Neal just spread his hands in the universal gesture of ‘I don’t know’. But Peter wasn’t buying that. There was something in Neal’s posture, in his eyes, that told him that he was lying. Which was a strange thing for a man who didn’t speak.

Peter decided that, for the moment, he was going to accept the improbable – no, the impossible – and stop asking. Maybe because his gut wasn’t sending him signals – other than hunger – or maybe because he didn’t mind a mystery in his life.

Neal’s stomach growled again, shaking Peter out of his momentary stasis. He fetched a few paper plates and a pile of napkins and hoped like hell that Neal didn’t want a knife and fork to eat his pizza.

 

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It was wonderful, really.

He had no other word for it – well, he had no words to speak of. Archons didn’t just exist only through the experiences of their charges. They had lives and loves and experiences, too. But those were always subsumed by the need to care and watch over the souls in their keeping.

The joy of being _here_ , in the same realm, no – in the same _room_ – as Peter was beyond anything he’d imagined. He felt complete, completed, and he’d never realized that a part of him had been missing. But it had, and it existed in the man standing a little more than an arm’s length away. Maybe this was why he’d needed to Fall, why he needed to defy logic and reason and law and be with Peter.

Neal’s very being sang at the proximity of the man. He’d watched over Peter in so many shapes and forms, across centuries of human time. To be here now, close enough to smell him, close enough to feel the air stir as he walked around the room was almost too much.

He couldn’t take his eyes off of Peter. And Peter seemed to sense that.

“What?”

Neal shrugged. He was doing that a lot – it was an easy way to communicate. A simple gesture that conveyed so much.

“Do I have dirt on my nose?”

Neal shook his head and just kept smiling. He almost wished he’d nodded yes – it would give him an excuse to touch Peter.

Neal knew it was better to stick with the truth as much as he could, at least for the small things. Let Peter draw conclusions that weren’t necessarily correct, if only because the real truth – like Falling between celestial dimensions – was not something he was actually prepared to explain.

Besides, touching Peter might be a bad idea. He knew, from his years of watching, that Peter – in this incarnation and in every other one – had a very strange sense of personal boundaries. He touched, but strangely enough, he didn’t like to be touched, at least not without invitation. Neal was content with letting Peter touch him. Very content.

As Peter set the table, Neal looked around the room, his eyes skipping from bookcase to couch to table, avoiding the large mirror over the fireplace. When Peter first brought him into the house and tried to show him the feathers imprinted on his back, Neal had been frightened and enthralled by the mirror. He knew, in the mortal realm, that they were a trick of physics, reflecting light back into the human eye. But in his world – his former world – a mirror was a portal between the dimensions. Archons did not see themselves; they saw the souls they were watching over.

In truth, Neal had actually never seen his own face. He knew that his fellow Archons found the symmetry of his features pleasing – just as he’d taken pleasure in their beauty. It was just shocking to see himself as others saw him.

An experience he didn’t want to repeat just yet.

Peter’s home was much as he’d thought it would be. He’d observed it from the other side of that mirror, from other bits of polished glass that were placed around the room. Being in the room, however, was a vastly different experience.

Neal resisted the temptation to pick things up and examine them in detail; to hold them, to learn their contours instead of simply viewing them from a distance. But he kept his hands to himself, which wasn’t really that much of a trial. The shirt that Peter had so casually given him was almost unbearably soft and he kept rubbing his hands against the fabric, enjoying the dual sensation of the soft fuzziness against his arms and the slightly rougher weave on his fingers.

In truth, the shirt was more interesting than anything else in the house except Peter himself. The caress of the fabric against this back was a constant distraction. When he thought about Falling, he’d deliberately avoided thinking about the loss of his wings. He’d feared their loss, but he had considered it part of the sacrifice he’d needed to make. He hadn’t expected the markings on his back – the image of feathers and bone that decorated his skin like a residual memory.

He continued his explorations, hands tucked under his arms, learning how to move without needing to consider his wings. Neal felt almost weightless and without the beautiful distraction just a few feet away, he’d probably break down in shock at the loss of his wings. But he’d made this choice, he Fell, because he needed to be with Peter, and the price of that need – his voice, his wings – was well worth paying.

“Are you okay?”

Peter’s question interrupted his musings. Neal opened his mouth to answer and remembered. He smiled and nodded instead. Having any meaningful conversation was going to be interesting.

The doorbell rang and he was saved from figuring out that conundrum. At least until after they ate.

 

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Of all the improbable things that he might have imagined, having a convivial dinner with a mute stranger who fell out of the sky was not even on the list. It might barely have made a list of impossible things, landing somewhere between walking barefoot across the Kalahari Desert and tongue-kissing the Queen of England.

El had often teased him that he was a professional paranoid, and he hadn’t disagreed. He told her never to accept packages delivered at the house unless she knew she’d ordered something. He had put blocks on the home phone to restrict unknown or unidentifiable callers. He’d even had the postal carrier vetted and asked her to let them know when there would be a substitute.

Peter supposed he could have blamed Reese for much of this paranoia – after all, he had just been implementing his mentor’s mildly offered suggestions. Of course he hadn’t known at the time that Reese had a real reason for his own paranoia.

The need to protect Elizabeth justified his precautions – he’d be damned if someone harmed his wife in order to get to him. And in the end, none of that mattered. She just died.

Sitting across from Neal – if that really was his name – in his own home, seemed the very height of insanity. But Peter couldn’t bring himself to worry. He wasn’t an FBI agent anymore; and he had no family to protect. And that smile, the light in Neal’s eyes, the happiness that radiated off of the man, made all of his paranoia like so much dust swirling in the sunlight.

The pizza smelled delicious and Peter couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an appetite for anything. Months, certainly – at least since Pratt’s murder. Maybe years, even. He almost wanted to dive into the pie; he was that hungry, but he could actually hear El saying “manners”. He paused, realizing that for the first time ever, her memory didn’t bring a surge of dark grief, but a soft echo of joy.

He opened the box and pulled a slice free, handing it to Neal, who juggled it. Peter had to smile as the strings of cheese got tangled in the other man’s fingers, and to his shock, he heard himself laugh at the almost hurt look on Neal’s face.

But that hurt melted back into a smile quickly enough. Peter took his own slice and remembered the beer. He held a bottle and asked, “Glass?”

There was an infinitely slight moment of confusion on Neal’s face, then he shook his head. Peter twisted the cap off and handed him the bottle before doing the same to his own. For some reason, he offered a toast – and not one he’d normally make – “ _L’chaim_. To life.”

Neal lifted his bottle and touched it against Peter’s. Peter could almost swear he heard the response echoing in the hard click of the glass. But all thoughts of the mystical faded as he ate. He thought about questioning Neal, asking if he needed a doctor, if he needed to contact anyone. But he couldn't seem to form the questions in the face of watching Neal eat. The pizza was so damn good, the beer perfectly cold, and the hole inside him felt – at least at this moment – a little smaller, a little less dark.

One bottle of beer and two slices of pizza later, Peter thought about reaching for a third slice and fetching a second bottle. But Neal took matters out of his hands, getting up and taking the pizza box with him. Peter shifted around and watched the man make himself perfectly at home in his kitchen. The remaining slices were efficiently wrapped in foil, bagged and stored in the freezer. The box was somehow folded into a small, neat square and tucked into the recycling bin. The two empty beer bottles were rinsed and put into the container for beverage returns.

Peter’s jaw dropped as Neal reached into the fridge and came up with a bag of coffee. He had no idea how long it had been in there, having a vague memory of Diana giving it to him after coming back from a trip to Hawaii. It could have been six months ago – maybe a year.

Neal opened the bag and sniffed, making a bit of a grimace before sniffing again and nodding. Peter wasn’t sure what Neal was going to do with the coffee until he pushed aside a stack of papers and pulled out an espresso machine.

Suddenly, Peter wanted to chase Neal out of the kitchen, out of the house, out of his life. That machine had been an anniversary present – the last gift El had given him. Not that he’d ever really used it. The morning after their anniversary celebration, he’d made them each one tiny cup of coffee and they’d both tried to reassure each other that the coffee was delicious. It wasn’t. It had been horrible.

He’d realized, afterwards, that there was an art to preparing the coffee and had promised to look at the machine-maker’s instructional videos before attempting to make another cup. But Peter had never gotten around to it. And then it was too late anyway.

He couldn’t bear to get rid of the gift, nor could he bear to use it. And yet he sat there, watching a stranger use it like it was something he’d done a thousand times, like he had every right to use it.

The rush of anger receded and Peter realized how foolish he was. It was just a _thing_ – yes, a thing given in love – but it was still only an inanimate object. He got up and went over to Neal, not to stop him, but to watch. It all seemed sort of ridiculous.

Neal, for his part, seemed utterly baffled by the espresso maker. He sniffed the coffee again, then looked back at the machine, brows furrowed.

Peter took pity on the other man. “Yeah, that’s just the way I felt.” He pulled the bag of coffee out of Neal’s hands and closed it before putting it back in the fridge. “It’s a little late for coffee, anyway.”

Neal seemed fascinated by the machine, though, and Peter actually had to tug him out of the kitchen. He wasn’t sure what to do with his guest, now that they’d eaten.

“Don’t suppose you’d like to watch the Knicks lose?”

 

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“Sleep well, see you in the morning.” Peter left and Neal stared at the closed door, bemused.

In truth, he’d never planned beyond the Fall. He’d heard June’s warnings – how Peter could reject him, leave him to make his own way in the world. He heard the warnings and rejected them, because his heart told him that Peter – that the soul he’d been watching over for so long – wouldn’t do that. But his brain, the rational part of him, knew that Peter Burke was not a man who opened his home up to strangers, who took in strays and fed them and gave them shelter.

Neal sat on the edge of the bed, stared at the closed door, and wondered at the change in this man.

Then he yawned. His jaw almost popped as he filled his lungs with air and he felt a wave of exhaustion overtake him. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sensation. Archons might be immortal, but they ate and slept and dreamed, just like the humans they watched over.

He stripped off the sweatshirt, folded it and put it on top of the pillow – it was too soft to give up, but too warm to sleep in. He took off his pants, noting the green stains on the seat from where he’d landed. There were many practical matters he was going to have to deal with in this world. Clothing, money, staying alive from day to day. He’d watched this world for too long not to know the dangers that were out there. The day might come – and it could very well be tomorrow – when Peter would tire of his company and send him away.

Neal got into the bed and put all thoughts of tomorrow out of his mind. Better to think about more pleasing things, like sitting next to Peter on the couch downstairs and watching very tall men run across a wooden floor, throwing a round orange ball at each other before trying to get it through a hoop.

The game would be a lot more interesting if the men had wings.

 

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Peter tried hard not to think about the man in the bedroom across the hall. It was one thing to give a stranger – one handicapped by the lack of a voice – a shirt, a meal, a few hours of his time. It was another thing to give him a bed. Peter was struck by an almost irresistible urge to drag Neal out of the guest bedroom and make him sleep here, in this room – in this bed – so he could keep an eye on him. At that thought, Peter physically shook himself and his brain settled back into its usual and vaguely paranoid patterns.

But still, it had been years since he’d gone to sleep knowing that another heart was beating under his roof. And there was a special joy in knowing that.

He didn’t date, and even if he did, there would be no way he’d bring another woman, even another man, into the house. Intellectually, he knew it wouldn’t be cheating. He knew that El would have wanted him to find happiness, to live a full life and find love again. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t bear the thought of kissing, of making love to someone who wasn’t Elizabeth. And even if he could, his body was dead. He had no desire for anyone.

Peter put on the old pair of shorts he normally slept in and got into bed, figuring that he’d toss and turn all night long, listening for the sound of his guest rummaging through the house, looking for valuables to steal.

He didn’t expect he’d drop off into a deep sleep moments after his head hit the pillow.

The dream, when it came, was brilliantly vivid, like a Technicolor movie.

 

_“MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY! WATCH ME!”_

_Peter was four years old and he was waiting at the top of the slide in his favorite playground. He wanted his mother to watch him slide all the way down by himself, without any help, without anyone catching him when he made it all the way to the bottom. Well, actually, it would be nice if his mommy caught him, but he was a big boy now and he could go on the slide all by himself._

_But his mommy wasn’t looking. She was talking with Tommy Davidson’s mommy. So he screamed, “MOMMY” at the top of his lungs._

_This time she looked up and smiled at him._

_He pushed off and let gravity take him to the bottom. He landed in the pile of sand in a great whooshing rush and it was the best ever. He ran over to his mommy and tugged at her coat. “Did you see, did you see, Mommy? I did it all by myself!”_

_“Yes, sweetie, of course I saw you. You went down all by yourself.” She ran her hand over his hair and plucked out a leaf before brushing the sand off his bottom. “I think you’re going to take home half the dirt in the playground, though.”_

_“Can I go again? Please, please?”_

_She looked at her watch and made a face. “Well, I think we have time for you to play a little while longer. Then we have to go so I can get dinner started. Your daddy will want to eat as soon as he gets home.”_

_“Okay, Mommy, just one more time.” Peter ran back to the jungle gym, bouncing a bit as he waited for his turn to climb up the ladder. There were a lot of other kids on the playground today. Tommy, of course, and some of the bigger kids from the neighborhood. It was Columbus Day and school was closed. There had been a parade in town and he’d gone with his mommy and watched people march down Main Street. He had held onto Mommy’s hand and bounced with excitement as the fire trucks passed. When he grew up, he wanted to be a fireman. Or maybe a policeman._

_“Hey kid, get out of my way!” One of the older boys pushed at him. Peter stumbled and the kid took his place in the line._

_“You cut! That’s not fair!” Peter wanted to push the big kid away, but his daddy told him never to start a fight that he couldn’t win._

_“What are you going to do about it, brat?” The boy loomed over him, fists clenched._

_The kid had his friends with him and all of a sudden, Peter was surrounded. He was scared. “Nothing.” He wandered away from the jungle gym and spotted a free swing. Quickly, before another kid could grab it, he ran over and got on. He probably should have gone back to his mommy, but she was still talking to Mrs. Davidson. Besides, she said he could play a little while longer._

_It took some effort to get going. Usually, when he went on the swings, his daddy was there to give him a push, but not today. Peter held onto the chains and pumped his legs, swinging back and forth. It was hard work, but he finally got going and it was better than the slide. He felt like a great big bird flying through the sky._

_Peter’s hands gripped the chains as he pushed and pumped his legs and the swing went back and forth, ever higher. All he could hear was the wind._

Peter tossed and turned against his pillow. The dream, which had been so pleasant, turned dark.

_He flew back and forth, higher and higher, the ground rushing past him. He didn’t feel the swing set shake or hear the chains whine and creak and squeal. He kept swinging and wishing that he was a bird or an airplane. Back and forth one more time, then another, and another and then he really was flying._

_The chain snapped and he was airborne – no rubber seat against his bottom, his hands were hurting and the ground and the sky were all confused. It was almost like being on the slide again, but much faster. Too much faster. He closed his eyes tightly and screamed._

_Then everything slowed down. Someone caught him and carried him almost all the way to the ground. He was scared and crying but he felt safe, too. Peter opened his eyes and all he saw was shining white wings and the blue, blue sky._

_Then his mommy came and picked him up, brushing a feather off his forehead. It went flying. Peter grabbed it and wouldn’t let it go. His mommy was holding onto him too tightly. She was crying, too, hugging him and saying his name over and over._

_It hurt to talk, but he asked her, “Did you see, Mommy? Did you see me fly?”_

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

 

Peter wasn’t the only one who dreamed.

When he first got into bed, Neal had tossed in restless agitation. He was accustomed to sleeping on his side in a vast round platform – to accommodate a wingspan twice his height. The bed in Peter’s guest room was small and a little saggy. The sheets and pillows had a slightly stale smell from the lack of use, which didn’t surprise Neal. He knew that Peter hadn’t had an overnight guest since his wife’s funeral.

And truthfully, it wasn’t just the bedding that was keeping Neal from sleep. It was _everything_. Falling, landing, being here, with Peter, being the object of Peter’s curiosity, and even better, his concern. That was perhaps the most unusual thing of all. It felt _good_ , like coming home after a long flight.

Neal wrapped himself in that feeling and he relaxed, drifting into sleep. He dreamed of an unremembered memory.

 

_Peter was a small, sturdy boy and Neal was charmed. He’d lost count of the childhoods he had watched this soul live through and grow out of and there was nothing remarkable about this one. But he was charmed, nonetheless. As his friend Matthew had pointed out, humanity had made great strides – not only had the humans invented ways to slaughter each other with greater efficiency, they had found ways to keep the most common diseases from killing off their young. Perhaps in an effort to make certain they grew to adulthood and found even more ways to kill._

_Neal didn’t care about those problems. He was concerned only with Peter, taking great joy in watching him grow into his soul. There was something about this particular life that called to Neal, that made his watching all the more intent._

_He knelt beside the mirror pool, observing the boy as he ran around a playground, doing all the same things that the other children were doing. Peter seemed keenly interested in having his mother watch him. For some reason, that struck Neal as sad. He couldn’t remember his mother or his father. No Archon could. He couldn’t remember feeling the lack of parents before, even though he’d watched this soul grow from an infant to an adult many, many times – almost always in the care of loving parents._

_Neal stretched his wings, enjoying the pull of feather and cartilage and skin against muscle, and made himself forget about his unknown progenitors as he turned his attention back to the scene in the mirror pool._

_Peter was surrounded by other boys, not that much older, but certainly bigger. They looked to be threatening his charge and Neal worried. Not that there was anything he could do to help the little boy. Interference was both forbidden and impossible. Matthew, always the trouble-maker, had asked him why, if interference in the course of a human life was impossible, was it also taboo?_

_Neal has told him that yes, it was an interesting conundrum. Certainly a question to ask the Elders, if he dared. Of course Matthew backed down. No one, especially not a fledgling with just a single soul to watch over, would dare question the edicts that ruled their kind._

_Neal watched and was relieved when Peter walked away from the bullies. Not that they’d really hurt him, but Neal didn’t want even the slightest harm to come to the little boy._

_Ah, good. He went over to the swing set and no one interfered._

_Neal was charmed as he watched Peter work his little body, trying to gain speed and height. Of course, in his world, there were no such things as swings and slides, but Neal understood their purpose. And it looked like a lot of fun, simple and pure and uncomplicated._

_As Peter swung high, Neal could suddenly see the impending disaster. At the top of the swing set, a link in one of the chains had rusted through and was giving way. When the chain snapped – and it would – it would hit Peter, maiming or killing him. And the fall would kill the little boy too – the velocity of the swing as it broke would send Peter flying through the air. In a millisecond, Neal could see the tragedy. Peter lying on the ground, broken and mangled._

_Dead._

_He had to stop it. Without thinking, without considering anything more than the need to save this life, Neal reached through the mirror pool to grab the child._

_The agony was excruciating, but Neal held on for the seconds he needed to carry the child to safety. A scant few feet from the ground, he had to let go._

_He pulled himself back through the mirror pool, his arms and wings burning. The agony was so intense, he passed out._

Neal woke with a start and pushed the covers aside, not bothering to fight the need to get up, to move around. He couldn’t remember the dream – no, the nightmare – but he couldn’t shake the feeling of impending disaster.

The clock read 3:29 AM, and there were hours to go before the dawn. He paced around the small room, wishing there was someone he could talk to, someone to help him make sense of this dream.

On a whim, Neal went to the bathroom and looked into the mirror above the sink. He’d watched Peter through this glass many times. It didn’t have the clarity of the mirror pool, but he had always felt he could see deeper into the man’s feelings, ease the pain in those vulnerable moments when Peter stared at himself and wondered where the years had gone, where his life had gone.

Neal looked into that mirror now and all he saw was his own reflection. It was a foolish, foolish hope that there would be someone on the other side.

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

 

“All is as it is supposed to be.” June walked away from the mirror pool, content in all that Neal had achieved in such a short space of human time. As an Elder, she could watch over anyone, not just the souls given into her care. She’d make her report to the others, let them know that Neal had survived his Fall, that he’d made the essential connection. It was only a matter of time before events would overtake him and the soul called Peter.

Nothing could stop the future.

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

 

Peter woke, the fog of his dreams burning away under the anticipation of a new day. He couldn’t remember the last time he woke feeling like this. Feeling _happy_ , expecting that only good things would happen.

He pushed aside the covers and got out of bed, scratching at his beard. A new day, a new life. He _should_ be angry, he _should_ be despondent of the loss of a career that had defined him for more than half a lifetime, but he wasn’t. He knew that a psychiatrist would tell him that grief doesn’t have a timeline, something he knew all too well, but Peter couldn’t even summon an echo of the disjointed agony he’d felt yesterday, before the abrupt entry of Neal into his life.

_Neal._

Peter shook his head, still bemused by his ready acceptance of a total stranger falling out of the sky. And then decided not to worry about it anymore. In all likelihood, the man was probably gone, taking whatever valuables he could find – which wasn’t much. It wasn’t like he had family silver or expensive art. El had decorated their home in an eclectic and joyful fashion, with little concern as to value. Anything meaningful was here in the bedroom, carefully packed away.

And again, the thought of Elizabeth didn’t bring the usual tidal wave of grief. It wasn’t that he was numb, it was that the memory of his wife was something that brought a sense of warmth and well-being.

Peter didn’t let himself dwell on this sea-change, like he wasn’t going to dwell on why he’d given his guest room to a total stranger. It was done and he’d deal with the consequences.

But that didn’t stop him from checking the guest room after he finished with the bathroom. To his surprise, the bed was perfectly made, the covers as undisturbed as they’d been for the past five years. Maybe last night had been merely a drunken fantasy? How much scotch did he really have?

Except that on top of the comforter were three large white feathers. Peter blinked, expecting them to disappear, but they were still there when he opened his eyes. The plumage glistened in the early morning sunshine and he picked them up, surprised at how heavy they were.

From downstairs, he heard the rumble of something. It sounded like a grinder and he smiled. It seemed like Neal was able to get the espresso machine working.

Peter headed back to his bedroom and put the feathers into a drawer. They were a puzzle, and there was nothing he liked so much as having a good mystery to solve. And at that thought, he laughed. Maybe that was why he wasn’t questioning Neal’s sudden appearance in his life.

Five minutes later, he was dressed and on his way downstairs. The scent of perfectly brewed coffee enticed him into the kitchen. Neal _had_ figured out how to get the recalcitrant machine to work. Right now, though, he was standing in front of the open refrigerator, a frustrated look on his face.

“Good morning.” The sound of his voice was odd as it echoed through the kitchen. Peter wasn’t accustomed to hearing it in this environment.

Neal turned to him, a startled expression giving way to pleasure at seeing him. He gestured to the refrigerator’s barren interior.

“Yeah, yeah – I know. Just call me ‘Old Mother Hubbard’.”

Neal closed the fridge and went back to the espresso machine, which again made those startling grinding noises, and this time it was followed by the whoosh of steam and then a shockingly loud gurgle as the brew emerged. Peter accepted the cup Neal handed to him and took a sip. It tasted like nothing he’d ever had before – at least from his own kitchen. He took another sip, savoring the complex brew, and for a moment, he was flung back in time, back to his honeymoon. He’d taken El to Venice, and every afternoon they had stopped at Caffè Florian for espresso and biscotti. It was shocking how much this cup – made from a year-old bag of coffee – tasted like his memory.

Peter finished the coffee and smiled at Neal. The man smiled back and Peter had the bizarre thought that the room seemed brighter. “I guess you’re hungry?”

Neal nodded.

“Can I persuade you that left-over pizza is the breakfast of champions?”

This time, Neal shook his head, but he was still smiling.

“No, of course not. You have too much common sense.” He patted his hip pocket; double checking that he had his wallet. “Come on – we’ll go out for breakfast and then see about getting some groceries.”

Neal grimaced and lifted up his left foot. His _bare_ left foot.

“Ah, yes. That could be a problem.” Peter pried off one of the sneakers he was wearing. “Try this – maybe we’ll get lucky and you can wear a pair of mine.”

Neal put the sneaker on and Peter watched intently as he hobbled around the room.

“Well?”

Neal made that face people make when something is okay, but not perfect.

“Too big?”

Neal nodded.

“That we can fix. Give me my shoe back.”

Neal did and Peter went back upstairs, grabbing a pair of sweat socks and an extra pair of sneakers. He apparently had signed up for clothing Neal as well as feeding him and giving him shelter.

“Here you go. We’ll stop someplace and get you some stuff.” Neal frowned, and Peter didn’t understand the expression. “What’s the matter?”

Neal repeated the gesture that Peter himself had made earlier: patting his hip, as if to remind him that he had no money.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Neal frowned again and Peter just tugged him towards the door, his skin electrified by that careless touch. “You got the espresso machine working – that’s payment enough.”

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

 

This wasn’t what he was expecting – to be so completely taken over, to be tugged and pulled along like he was caught in a turbulent stream of air. It wasn’t that he’d never observed this behavior in Peter. Peter was a man with a deeply dominant streak. He always had been, throughout his many lives. It was just disconcerting to be the target of such dominance, since Neal had never been someone to bow his head and just go along because it was easier.

“You okay?” Peter stopped and looked at him, his face drawn into lines of concern.

Neal nodded. There was no point in doing otherwise. After all, what did he have to complain about? He now had clothes, shoes, a warm coat. He had eaten; there would be more food to satisfy his hunger and the promise of shelter from the cold in the very near future. He felt like an ungrateful bastard for resenting Peter and his generosity.

“You’re not used to this, are you?”

Neal stopped and stared at Peter, not sure what the man meant.

Peter gave him a wry smile. “You’re not used to anyone doing this for you – taking care of you?”

Conflicting emotions roiled through him – gratitude that this man was so perceptive, and anger, too. Was he that transparent?

Apparently so.

“Don’t worry, we all need help sometimes. And sometimes the hardest thing to do is accept that.” Peter stopped and shook his head. “And that is a lesson a hell of a lot easier to teach than to learn. I can barely remember the last time I let someone help me.” A spasm of grief crossed Peter’s face.

Neal swallowed, wishing he could say something, anything, to make that grief go away. He wanted to touch Peter, sometimes it was hard not to, but he just kept his hands to himself.

“Ah, it’s okay. I’m okay.” Peter hefted the shopping bag and started walking again, leaving Neal to wonder anew at his ability to read him.

It was mid-afternoon when they finally got home. _Home_ – such a strange place for him now. Neal didn’t regret Falling. He relished every moment spent with Peter, but it was odd having no purpose. The lack of direction was worse than the loss of his wings.

And truthfully, he wasn’t sure that he actually missed them. Maybe that was a by-product of Falling into the mortal world. Remembering the tattoo on his back, Neal wondered if they had burned into his body during his passage. He flexed his shoulders, trying to remember the muscle and weight of those vast appendages, but he couldn’t.

“What’s the matter?”

Neal hadn’t realized that Peter was looking at him. He shook his head.

“Nothing? You sure?”

He sighed, annoyed at the realization that his vocabulary was limited to body expressions.

But that didn’t seem to occur to Peter, who said, “If you need anything, let me know,” before heading back to the kitchen to put the groceries away.

For lack of anything better to do, Neal took off his borrowed shoes and socks, preferring the feel of the floor against his bare feet. He removed a book from one of the overcrowded build-in bookcases – a sturdy volume on the Metropolitan Museum of Art – to peruse. Neal had always found the human drive to create beauty such a dichotomy with their need to destroy. As he flipped through the glossy pages, Neal became almost intoxicated by humanity's endless creativity.

Of course he’d seen the contents of the Met – and most of the other great and not-so-great museums in the mortal realm – but for some reason, sitting here and holding this book was more powerful, more _real_. He wondered if it was because he was that much closer to the real thing, that the photographs themselves represented their own creative effort.

He paused at a photograph and had to grin. _Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss_ was certainly a masterpiece – even as a plaster casting – but poor Cupid was certainly doomed to a flightless existence with such inadequate wings. And poor Psyche was just as doomed to a lack of satisfaction, given the god's very inadequate penis.

“What’s so funny?”

Neal hadn’t heard Peter approach. The man was hovering over his shoulder.

“Hmmm, _Cupid and Psyche_? Not a favorite of mine, though I guess if you like the myth, it’s an interesting piece. Always thought the guy’s wings were way too small. No way could those little things get a fully grown man airborne.”

Peter walked away and Neal just stared. What was going on here? This wasn’t the first time it seemed like Peter was reading his mind.

 

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

Peter was surprised at how easily he fell into the rhythm of ‘retirement’.

He didn’t sleep late, but he didn’t rush to get up, either, just letting his body adapt to a more natural pattern of rising with the sun. If it wasn’t raining, he’d go for a run, almost always with Neal at his side. They’d get home, clean up and have breakfast, usually accompanied by a few tiny cups of that excellent espresso. The rest of the day was spent working on various projects he decided to tackle. Since Elizabeth’s death, he’d let things slide. He didn’t lie to himself anymore – he’d neglected things not because of a lack of time, but from apathy.

Neal, a silent and still puzzling presence in his life, was also a splendid partner. They worked side-by-side on whatever project he’d decided to do that day – from reorganizing and cleaning up the book cases, to going through a dozen years of personal papers, to transforming the third floor into something other than a junk depository.

Each project was filled with deep emotional crevices, pits he couldn’t avoid falling into. But Neal was there, catching him and holding him tight until he made some kind of emotional landing.

Days became weeks, and a whole month had passed without Peter realizing that he’d finally stopped questioning Neal’s presence in his life. He woke up each morning, knowing that there was someone waiting for him, taking joy in that friendship.

His feelings for the other man were strange and complex. He couldn’t deny that there was a spark of sexual attraction. Before he met Elizabeth, he’d been with more men than women. People were people – some were attractive to him, some weren’t. But when he’d met Elizabeth, he’d lost interest in anyone else. She was everything he ever wanted. After she died, desire had become as much of a stranger as hope and happiness. Then Neal landed in the middle of his life and he started to feel things he hadn’t felt in so long.

It should have bothered him, to want that happiness again, but it didn’t.

Not that he did anything about it. He was – at least for the moment – content in the simple pleasure of sharing his life again. He found himself opening up to Neal about his life, his dreams, his failures, his losses. He did what he’d thought impossible. He talked about his life with Elizabeth, what she’d meant to him, how much he loved her and how much he still missed her.

Neal, though silent, didn’t lack for compassion or empathy. He understood grief and loss. Maybe that’s what made the difference. Peter had loathed the idea of therapy, of grief counseling. Talking to a well-educated stranger with a clock ticking in the background was not his way of dealing with things, but Neal, sitting there and unable to say a word, but speaking volumes through those expressive eyes, was the perfect sounding board.

By the time that Thanksgiving was visible on the calendar, Peter felt better than he had since El had died, physically and emotionally.

And Peter welcomed Neal’s presence in his life. The mystery of the man’s presence in his backyard was still a tantalizing puzzle that he wanted to solve. That – and the feathers he found in random places around the house. Sometimes they were on Neal’s bed – which was always pristinely made each morning – sometimes a handful of them were on top of the latest load of laundry, and sometimes they turned up in the strangest of places – like the pocket of his winter coat.

And like those three feathers he had found that first morning, the plumage certainly didn’t come from a bird. They were too dense, too heavy – almost crystalline, as if they’d been dipped in liquid diamonds – but still soft like normal feathers.

It was an odd thing, but these discoveries evoked a childhood memory, a fascination with feathers that he didn’t remember until now.

In a fanciful moment, he thought about asking Neal to take his shirt off – he was wondering if the feathers were coming off of that incredible tattoo on his back. And strangest of all, Neal was never in the room when he found them.

Peter was careful not to lose any of the feathers – each about the size of his palm – and kept all of them in an old wooden cigar box, a relic of his childhood. It only seemed right to keep them there. Beneath the old baseball cards and other long-forgotten scraps of his happy boyhood was a crumpled, dirty feather. He didn’t remember how he got it or why he kept it, but he couldn’t bring himself to discard it, even as he tossed away the other bits of his childhood

He’d just found another clump of plumage – this time in the cutlery drawer – when the doorbell rang. He wrapped the feathers in a napkin and tucked it in his back pocket before going to answer the door.

It was Reese, and unlike the last visit, Peter welcomed his old friend with a happy smile, holding the door open and gesturing him to come in.

They’d talked a few times since his own retirement, but their conversations had been filled with difficult pauses and unasked questions. For his part, Peter had found it impossible to tell his old friend about his new friend, but since Neal was upstairs and at some point would come down and investigate, Peter figured that he was going to have to make some awkward introductions.

“Peter?” Reese seemed puzzled at his behavior and entered with obvious trepidation. “Everything all right?”

Peter knew that his smiles and easy, relaxed manner was out of character for a man forced into early retirement. He didn’t care. “Yeah, everything is fine.”

“You’ve been busy, I see.” Reese was looking around the living room, which still carried the faint odor of fresh paint. Much of the accumulated clutter had been disposed of or packed away. There was a simplicity to the room now, although it still felt like a home – not a showplace.

“Yeah, I’m just getting some things in order.”

“You’re going to sell the place?” Reese sounded shocked.

“No, I don’t think so. But I’ve been living with the past for so long that it’s been getting in the way of finding my future.”

Reese blinked. “That sounds remarkably … healthy.”

“Yeah, I know. Kind of strange, coming from me.” Peter smiled. “I bet you’re probably wondering where the bitter, grieving widower went.”

“Maybe – we’ve talked and I could hear how much better you sounded since the last time I came over. I’ve been reluctant to intrude, but I’ve been worried, too. This – ” Reese made an expansive gesture, “is unexpected.”

Peter herded Reese towards the kitchen. “Beer or coffee?”

“Well, since I’ve had your coffee, please make it a beer.”

Peter handed him a long-neck and took one for himself. “I’m happy, Reese. I don’t really know how to explain it, but I am.”

The other man stared at him over the lip of the bottle. “You don’t have to justify your happiness, Peter. And I do understand. Sometimes you _can_ find the light at the end of the tunnel. Sometimes it’s just _there_ and all you need to do is turn around.” Reese’s lips curled into a smile.

“How’s David?”

“As much of a cantankerous son of a bitch as I am. He also wants to know why you haven’t been by since, well, forever.”

Peter shrugged. “It was kind of hard to socialize with a senior member of the U.S. Attorney’s office when I was under investigation by the U.S. Attorney’s office.”

“But it’s been over a month since they closed the investigation. What’s your excuse now?”

Peter thought about the man working on the endless cartons of books up on the third floor. He shrugged. “I’ve been busy – and kind of focused.”

“Well, I don’t see why you can’t take a night off. Thanksgiving’s in a few weeks. David and I expect you to be there. This year, it’ll be just the three of us and David’s niece – she’s at Columbia Medical School and doesn’t have the time to fly home. Catherine and Michael are taking the grandchildren to D.C.” Catherine was David’s daughter.

Peter opened and closed his mouth, feeling like a guppy. He should have expected the invitation. He’d been going to Reese and David’s for the holiday since Elizabeth had died.

“What’s the matter? Don’t you want to come this year?”

Peter could hear the hurt in his old friend’s voice. “No, I do – it’s just …” He rubbed the back of his neck and felt a flush burning across his face.

“Peter?” Reese’s smile broadened. “You’ve met someone?”

Peter nodded, feeling ten kinds of sheepish. It was too much to hope that Reese would let the matter drop.

And of course he didn’t. The man looked around, clearly casting the changes to the place in a different light. “You can bring her or him – unless you have plans.”

Peter was touched by the happiness he heard in Reese's voice – happiness for him. And he just couldn’t let that be ruined by a lie. He licked his lips. “It’s not what you think, okay?”

Reese put his bottle down with a thunk and looked at him with curiosity. “Oh? What are you saying?”

“Neal’s just a friend – a good friend, though. We sort of met by chance.”

“Do you think that I – of all people – care that you’re seeing a man? I know you, remember?”

“Yeah, of course you do.” Peter shook his head. “But I don’t think you can call my relationship with Neal ‘seeing’ – we’re not romantically involved.” _At least, not yet._

Reese looked troubled now. “And you said you just met him by chance?”

“He kind of dropped into my life.” Peter took a sip of his own beer and gave Reese a hard stare. “And stop being such a paranoid bastard. Neal’s …” He huffed a sigh, unable to package Neal into a convenient description.

“Inappropriate?” Reese was clearly trying to salvage the moment.

“No, of course not. He’s a friend, Reese.” But to his own ears, it sounded like he was trying to make himself believe that.

“Okay.” Reese picked up his beer and took a drink. “And there’s no reason why he can’t join us for Thanksgiving. Friends are welcome, too.”

Peter couldn’t believe how neatly he’d been boxed into a corner. “How about if I talk to Neal and then let you and David know?”

“Fair enough. Now – have you given any thought to my suggestion?”

Peter knew just which suggestion Reese was talking about. “Yes, and I do appreciate that you haven’t pressed...” Reese hadn’t brought up the job offer with the NSA since the last time he was at the house.

“I’m not insensitive, Peter.”

“And you’re also too smart to discuss company business on an open line.”

“That, too. You’re going to turn it down, aren’t you?”

“I have to.”

“Is it this Neal?” Clearly Reese wasn’t taking Peter’s demurral about his lack of romantic intentions seriously.

“No. I’m done with the government and all that bureaucracy. I loved being an FBI agent and there will always be a part of me that will regret leaving the Bureau, but I just can’t see myself going into the clandestine services. It’s not a life I’d ever want for myself.”

Reese nodded slowly. “And what do you want to do with the rest of your life? Private industry? Consulting?”

Peter shrugged. “I was thinking about going back to school, maybe getting a teaching degree.” In truth, this was the first time he even thought about it, but as the words left his mouth, they sounded like the perfect plan.

“I thought you wanted to get away from bureaucracy. Being a teacher requires dealing with bureaucracy every damn day.”

“Look, teaching’s just an idea. But I kind of like the idea of going back to school – studying something I want to study, for the pleasure of learning – not to find a career.”

Reese let out a sigh. “Well, they do say that youth is wasted on the young.” He put down his bottle. “I should be going. You talk to Neal and get back to me about Thanksgiving, okay? David’s going to be seriously pissed off if you don’t make it and honestly, I don’t need to deal with his bad attitude and a dry, stringy turkey on the same day.”

Peter laughed. “Will do.” He walked Reese towards the front door, grateful that Neal hadn’t decided to come downstairs. “I’ll talk with Neal tonight and let you know.”

Just as Peter was opening the door, he heard footsteps. Of course Reese heard them too. He stopped and looked up the staircase. Neal, barefoot and beautiful, carrying a carton of papers, was on his way down.

“You didn’t tell me he was here.” Reese took in Neal’s very casual attire, especially the bare feet. “He’s living with you?”

Peter nodded.

Neal didn’t seem at all fazed by the visitor. He put the carton down and held out his hand, his ever-present smile undimmed.

Peter stifled a sigh and made the introductions. “Neal – this is my old friend, Reese. Reese, Neal.”

Reese gave the other man a slightly suspicious look before taking his hand. “Good to meet you, Neal.”

Neal, of course, didn’t say anything and just nodded. Peter, of course, needed to explain. “Neal is mute – he can hear, but he can’t speak.”

That seemed to only heighten Reese’s suspicions and he continued to stare at Neal. Neal continued to smile, looking more and more like the Cheshire Cat. There seemed to be something else going on, too. Reese hadn’t let go of Neal’s hand, and Neal didn’t let go of Reese’s. Both men stood there and Peter could see the muscles in Neal’s forearm flexing. He looked to his old friend’s face and was shocked by the sweat popping out on his forehead.

Peter found himself getting annoyed at both men. “Whoever started this macho stupidity needs to stop it right now.”

Reese let go and stepped away, shaking his hand. Neal flexed his fingers before shoving his hand into his pants pocket.

Anxious to get his friend out the door, Peter said, “Reese – I’ll call you next week about Thanksgiving. Unless the invitation is rescinded?”

Reese shook his head and continued to stare at Neal. “No, of course not. David and I will be delighted to have you and … Neal for dinner.” At that, he turned and left the house, the door closing emphatically behind him.

“What the hell was that about?”

Neal’s smile returned to its usual wattage and he shrugged before picking up the box of papers he’d put down earlier.

Peter sighed, annoyance giving way to something deeper, something harder to define. “I suppose you want to know about me and Reese, right?”

 

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Of course Neal knew about Reese and Peter.

He knew everything about Peter and his romantic entanglements – in this and every other life. But he also knew that Reese was more than just an entanglement. The relationship between the two men was deeply complex – they had been mentor and trainee, boss and subordinate. They were still very close friends. And for a very brief space of time, they’d been lovers.

Neal had seen the whole thing, of course – from its awkward first moments to the sweet, bitter and very practical ending. But Peter was inclined to talk, and Neal always wanted to encourage that. So he put the box of papers back down, got them both fresh bottles of beer and sat down on the couch. He schooled his expression into one of careful curiosity and waited for Peter to start.

“I guess the place to start is the beginning, right?” Peter seemed so nervous and unsure of himself – so unlike the man he’d gotten to know so well these past few weeks, to know in ways that he’d never been able to from his perch above a mirror pool.

Neal just watched Peter, willing him to let the words flow.

Peter sighed and paced a bit, before sitting down next to him. “It’s not like I’m embarrassed or anything. It’s just awkward to talk about.” He wiped his hands on his thighs, scratched his scalp, and then wiped his hands again. “And you’re sort of a captive audience. I can’t help but feel guilty. You let me talk and talk – even when it’s irrelevant. You don’t complain. Hell, you _can’t_ complain. Sometimes I wonder …”

Neal felt so damn sorry for Peter, he wished he could just tell him that he knew everything, but of course he couldn’t take that disastrous step. But he could give some comfort. Peter might not think twice of tugging and pulling on him, but Neal was always very careful when he initiated physical comfort. There was always that spark between them, something he was afraid he couldn’t control. He slowly lowered his hand over Peter’s, squeezing it gently, trying to imbue all his love, his concern, to give as much comfort as he could.

It seemed to work. Peter settled against the back of the couch and relaxed. Neal let go, reluctantly.

“I was a probie – that is a probationary agent – and it was the end of my first year out of the Academy. Being in Manhattan was like a dream come true. Working for Reese, who was a legend even back then, was better than that. He was a good boss, he didn’t treat any of the probies like glorified gofers who existed to make photocopies and fetch coffee. He gave us real work to do, real assignments on real cases. He listened to us when we spoke and he never let any of the senior agents give us shit.”

Peter seemed lost in the nostalgia, but Neal was patient until he picked up the threads of his story again.

“I had a boyfriend at the time.” Peter looked at him, expecting some sort of response.

Neal did his best to convey confusion – he really had no idea what the problem was.

“You’re not freaked out about the ‘boyfriend’ thing?”

_Ahh._ Now he understood. He just shrugged and shook his head.

“A lot of people would. They’re not comfortable with bisexuality. They think bisexuals – we – are just looking to score wherever we can, or are just in denial. A fucking nasty stereotype and I am really glad it doesn’t matter to you.”

Neal wanted to touch Peter again, but more than just squeeze his hand. He wanted to hug him, to let him know how much he understood.

“Anyway – it was Christmastime and Jason and I were supposed to be going to go to Florida for the week. Sit on the beach and do nothing more strenuous than get a decent tan. Except that Jason dumped my ass the day before the trip. He told me he’d found someone a little less boring and ordinary.”

Neal, of course, had seen the whole thing. Had watched and ached for Peter, who truthfully hadn’t been all that heartbroken when his partner had written him a check for the cost of the trip, collected his stuff and walked out of Peter’s life.

“I suppose you’re wondering what this has to do with Reese, right?”

Neal nodded, although he knew the answer.

“Anyway, I was bummed – I think more because I was looking forward to the sun and sand than because Jason dumped me. There was a bar in Chelsea – not a pick-up joint, but an honest-to-god bar where I could get a beer and burger and read a newspaper or a book and not be bothered. It was a place to go when you don’t want to be alone, but you don’t want to talk with anyone, either, you know what I mean?”

Neal nodded again, since some response was called for.

“So – it’s my vacation and instead of getting on a plane to Miami Beach, I’m sitting at a table in a gay bar on West Twenty-First Street, with a beer and a copy of the latest Tom Clancy and I look up and I see Reese. It was weird – he’d been out on leave for about ten days and all of a sudden I see him at the bar. It looked like he was getting into it with the bartender, a nice enough guy. I probably should have minded my own business, but I went over to see what was wrong…”

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

 

“Sir?”

Hughes looked over at him and Peter was shocked at the man’s gray pallor and bloodshot eyes. “Fuck, Burke – what the hell are you doing here?”

Peter shrugged. “Having a beer and a burger. Taking it easy.” He tilted his head towards the booth he’d just abandoned. On the table, the paperback was turned over to hold the page and the plate with the remains of his burger and fries pushed to one side.

The older man growled, “You’re supposed to be on vacation.”

“I am.”

“Heard you were going to Florida.” Hughes seemed extraordinarily aggressive, almost angry.

“My trip was cancelled. Decided to just stay home.” Peter shifted his stance, relaxing against the bar and cutting off the view of the all-too-curious bartender. “I’m surprised to see you here. Agent Wentworth said you had to take emergency leave. Everything okay?”

Hughes flushed, but his eyes narrowed. “That’s none of your business, Burke.” He turned back to the bar and tapped his fist against it, trying to summon the bartender. It finally hit Peter. His boss was drunk. Hughes was holding his liquor well enough, but he was definitely drunk.

“Sir – I think you’ve had enough.” He gently tried to tug the older man away from the bar. “Come on, let’s sit down.” As he pulled Hughes along, Peter wondered if he was committing career suicide.

Surprisingly, Hughes acquiesced to Peter’s manhandling and slid into the booth. Peter sat down across from him and waited for him to say something. The silence stretched thin and Peter couldn’t take it anymore. “Sir, are you all right?”

Hughes gave him a funny smile. “I think, under the circumstances, you should drop the ‘Sir’. This isn’t the right kind of bar for that type of title.”

A hot flush burned across Peter’s cheeks. He couldn’t believe his boss had just made a BDSM joke.

Hughes apologized. “Sorry – that was out of line.”

Peter shrugged, smiled and was bitten by the god of mischief. “To tell the truth, in those places, I’d prefer to be the one called ‘Sir’.”

Hughes laughed, a smile briefly illuminating his dour expression. “Yes, I can see that you would.”

“Then what should I call you?” ‘Agent Hughes’ felt as out of place as ‘Sir.’ And just plain ‘Hughes’ seemed disrespectful.

“At this moment, ‘Reese’ will do.”

The line had been clearly drawn and Peter was relieved. What happened here had nothing to do with the office, the Bureau. He could speak freely. “Are you okay?”

Reese sighed and seemed to collapse into himself. “I’ve been better.”

“Can I help?”

“You are such a knight in shining armor, Peter Burke. Bet you helped old ladies cross the street and rescued kittens caught in trees.”

Peter didn’t react to the bitter contempt in those words. “You’re not an old lady or a kitten.”

“No, I’m not.”

Peter knew that you couldn’t help people who didn’t want to be helped and decided that he’d done enough. He picked up his book and started to read, expecting Reese to leave.

But the man didn’t. “You ever lose anyone you loved, Burke?”

Peter looked up at the question. He didn’t even weigh his answer. “I didn’t really love him, but my boyfriend just left me for someone he found a lot more exciting. And had a bigger wallet.”

“That’s not the kind of loss I mean.”

Peter finally understood. “Okay. No – not like that.” Both his parents were still alive, and thank god, none of his boyfriends had gotten sick. Not that he’d ever really loved any of them.

“You’re lucky.” At that, Reese fell silent again.

But he seemed to be – for lack of a better word – receptive to Peter’s questions. “Who?”

Reese looked at his hands. “My partner, or as the newspapers would say, my ‘longtime companion,’ Aaron.”

“I’m sorry.” Peter said the words but they were so inadequate.

“We beat everything, we’d even forced them to accept us, but we couldn’t beat time.”

“Sir?” Peter bit his lip, he couldn’t help the word.

Reese sighed. “If I’m going to tell you, I need a Scotch. Neat.” He went to pull out his wallet, but Peter waved him off.

He got up and went to the bar to order.

The bartender gave him a worried look. “Your friend’s been in here for the better part of the last two days. I don’t think he needs any more to drink.”

“I’ll make sure he’s okay. Just make it his usual, and mine, too.”

Peter came back with the Scotch and his own bottle of beer. He pushed the shot glass over to Reese. “Make it last. You’re cut off after this.”

Reese glared at him but didn’t comment.

Peter took a sip and waited.

Reese just held the glass, turning it carefully, but didn’t take a drink. “Aaron and I started at Quantico together. We were friends. Rivals, too – first and second, second and first – didn’t matter. But he probably should have been first in everything. The discrimination wasn’t all that subtle and they held him to a higher standard than the other trainees.”

Peter wasn’t sure what type of discrimination Reese was talking about.

Reese explained. “Aaron was Jewish – he was his parents’ fourth child and the only one who lived to adulthood. His three siblings were killed in the concentration camps, but his mother and father survived and emigrated. He was born here.”

“You were together since the Academy?” At twenty-eight, Peter had a hard time imagining anyone being together for that long, his parents notwithstanding. And then he thought about having to hide a relationship for that long, too. The FBI wasn’t like the military, there was no official policy, but until recently, it was impossible to be both gay and an FBI agent, unless you were Hoover.

“No. Not until we were both years out of our probationary assignments.” Reese sat, still holding the glass of Scotch, lost in the memory. He shook himself. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, Burke.”

“It’s ‘Peter’. If I’m calling you Reese, you can return the favor.”

The corner of Reese’s mouth tilted up in a mockery of a smile. He finally took a sip of the drink. “Peter it is.”

“You’re telling me because you need to tell someone.”

“Yeah, I guess. Aaron and I were partners – and the brass knew about it. There were rumblings, especially after Frank Buttino was fired. But I had offers – there were other agencies which needed certain skills and didn’t care who I fucked. I may still take one of those offers.”

Peter wondered just what those skills were, but he knew better than to ask. “What happened to Aaron?”

Reese downed the rest of his Scotch. “He died. A week ago.”

“How?” Peter was almost afraid of the answer.

“Pancreatic cancer. We thought he had a bad case if indigestion – that he’d had too much to eat at Thanksgiving. But it wasn’t that, and now he’s dead. Four weeks. He’s gone in four fucking weeks.”

Peter swallowed hard. He could barely imagine this man’s grief.

“I can’t go home. He’s everywhere I look. I can’t stand it.”

Peter heard the desperation in Reese’s voice and he came to a decision. “Then don’t – I’ve got some space. You can bunk with me for a few days. Until you're ready to deal with it.”

“Seriously, Burke?”

“It’s Peter. And yes, seriously.” Again, he had to wonder if he was committing career suicide.

But to his shock, Reese nodded slowly. “Then I’d appreciate that. But finish your beer, I think I’d like to just sit here for a while.”

Peter pointedly looked at the empty glass on the table.

“And no, I don’t want another. Not now.”

“Okay.” He looked at Reese, who had leaned back against the booth and closed his eyes. Peter picked up his paperback but found it hard to lose himself in the derring-do of Jack Ryan with his boss sitting across from him. He looked up after a few dozen pages, surprised to see Reese asleep. He finished the beer, got up and paid the tab – both his own and Reese’s – and went to the men’s room to rid himself of the processed brew.

One of the bar’s regulars, a guy Peter didn’t particularly like, was standing next to him at the urinal. “Didn’t figure you for a prune chaser.”

Since punching a man while he was peeing was kind of contrary to his personal code of honor, Peter held his temper. “Watch your mouth.”

“Come on – you’re really going to go home with that fossil? Hope he’s got a defibrillator next to the Viagra.”

Peter finished peeing and seriously reconsidered his position on slugging the guy. Instead, he looked down and sneered. “I guess your mind’s as small as your dick.”

Another guy, a few stalls down, overheard and snorted in laughter.

Peter zipped up, flushed and went to the sink to wash up. Reese was standing at the door and Peter wondered how much he’d heard.

Enough apparently, that despite his grief, he had a devilish look in his eye. He touched Peter’s shoulder and said, “Wait for me, okay?”

Peter smiled back and winked. “Sure.” He never found out just what Reese said to Tiny Dick, but the man rushed past Peter, who was waiting by the front door, his face pale and looking like he’d just been told the date and hour of his death. Reese followed a minute or two later, looking a lot better than he had when Peter first saw him.

“My apartment’s on Eighteenth Street, near Tenth.” The neighborhood wasn’t all that residential or all that safe, to be honest, but it was dirt cheap. He had a decent sized two-bedroom with a view of the broken down elevated train tracks for the long-abandoned West Side line. There were rumors about turning it into some kind of park, but he figured that would never happen. At least not in his life time.

As they walked, Peter tried to remember if his sheets were clean – or at least if he had clean ones in the closet. He figured that he’d give Reese his bed and he’d sleep on the couch. For all that he had a two-bedroom apartment; the second bedroom functioned solely as storage space. He’d been meaning to clear out the boxes and set it up as an office and maybe a guest room, but hadn’t gotten around to it yet.

There was a bitterly cold wind coming off the Hudson River. A few stray dogs trotted past them and the sounds of a nasty argument drifted down from someone’s open window. Peter winced, wondering what Reese was thinking about him. He was a New Yorker, and if there was anything that defined a New Yorker, it was the location of his real estate.

But Reese didn’t seem to mind. More likely, though, his thoughts were occupied by other, less irrelevant things. His place was at the top of a four-story walk up and Peter mentally crossed his fingers that he’d at least taken out the trash.

He opened the three locks that secured the door and took a deep breath. No, the place didn’t smell from last night’s Chinese food. He flipped on the light and stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. “Um – let me take care of a few things. You can, umm, relax.” Peter gestured to the couch and winced as he saw the mess of files on the coffee table. Files that he wasn’t supposed to bring home, for all that they were for the cold-ish case that he’d been assigned to review.

Reese nodded and his eyes followed Peter’s. But he didn’t comment on the files; he just took off his jacket and sat down.

Peter excused himself and headed into this bedroom, rapidly stripping the sheets from the bed and putting on the clean, but wrinkled ones he pulled from the laundry basket in the corner, all the while telling himself he was a dozen kinds of crazy. Who the hell offers their boss a place to stay? If the man really didn’t want to go home, he could certainly get a hotel room. This was New York City; there were no shortage of hotels.

But Peter somehow knew that for a grieving man, an anonymous hotel room might be worse than going home. Reese had been in that bar for a reason. The same reason that he’d let him intervene at the bar, that he told him what had happened to his partner. That he was here. Because he couldn’t bear to be alone.

Peter took out an unopened package of pajamas from his bureau – his mother had sent them a few years back. They really weren’t his style. But he’d leave them for Reese, who could wear them if he wanted.

Peter stepped back, looked at the bed, and then did a little cleaning up or – to be more accurate – shoving his sneakers and running gear into the closet. Five months at Quantico had cured him of any lingering tendencies towards slob-hood, but he was still a guy. He grabbed the clean towels from the laundry basket, folded and put them into the bathroom with a spare razor and toothbrush, and finally rejoined Reese, who was – naturally – looking at the files on the coffee table.

“Umm – ” Peter rubbed at the back of his neck, hoping like hell that the line that had been drawn at the bar was still in place. That Reese – Agent Hughes – wouldn’t chew him out for this breech of procedure. Technically, the files were just FOUO, For Official Use Only, and weren’t classified or sensitive, but there were good reasons why agents – especially probationary agents – weren’t supposed to take files home with them.

“Just looking at your notes on the old Pederson securities case. Good point about checking with the secretary. I’m surprised that the original case agent hadn’t.”

“Rachel Turner wasn’t Pederson’s full time secretary, sir.” Peter bit his lip, but the ‘sir’ felt right, since they were talking about a case. “She worked at the firm as a floater, filling in for clerical staff all over the place.”

“Which meant that she had access to data from a whole bunch of different traders. Again – this was sloppy work by the original case agent. It should have been picked up immediately, not three years after the fact.”

Peter sat down and they talked about the case for what seemed like ten or fifteen minutes, but in truth it was closer to an hour. He was shocked that it was close to one in the morning when he looked at his watch. He couldn’t stifle a yawn now that he knew what time it was, it seemed that all he wanted to do was go to sleep.

Reese closed the file he was holding. “I’m keeping you from your bed. If you have an extra blanket, the couch will be fine.”

“No – you can have the bed. I just put clean linens on it.”

“Peter – ”

“Reese, please take the bed. You look like you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in days.”

Reese scrubbed at his face. “I should tell you you’re an idiot to give up your bed, but I don’t think I can. I really appreciate this.”

Peter nodded his acknowledgment and pointed the way to the bedroom. “Sleep well.”

He waited until the other man finished with the bathroom and took care of his own nightly rituals, putting on the old Quantico tee shirt and running shorts he normally slept in. When the light went out in the bedroom, Peter pulled out an old afghan, stretched out on the couch and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Typical December morning light – fitful and gray – filled the living room when Peter woke up. He blinked, looked at his watch, and was surprised to see that it was well after nine. The smell of coffee teased his nostrils and he remembered everything from last night. His unexpected guest must be awake and in the kitchen.

Peter wiped the grit from his eyes, got up, and went to see what Reese was doing.

The man was dressed – in yesterday’s clothes, of course – but his hair was damp and Peter could see that he’d shaved. The kitchen was tiny and they awkwardly moved around each other as Peter fetched his coffee cup from the drain board and filled it. They repeated the dance as Peter reached into the fridge for the milk. He took a sip and the caffeine hit his bloodstream, completing the chemistry needed to get his brain functioning.

“Good morning, Peter.”

Peter looked up at Reese, who was now leaning against the sink, watching him with an unreadable expression. He felt like he was under a microscope and was surprisingly unnerved. He managed to mutter “Morning” before attacking the contents of his cup.

How the hell had the man managed to make such good coffee? He’d had the machine for years and it either produced something akin to used motor oil or barely brown water. He reached for the pot and poured another cup, all but inhaling that one, too.

He almost made a comment about keeping Reese around, if just for the magic he’d wrought with his damn coffee maker, but remembered just why he was here in his apartment on a Saturday morning, two days before Christmas. He swallowed and tried not to be self-conscious in his worn out shorts and t-shirt.

“Go get dressed, Peter. The least I can do is buy you breakfast.”

Peter nodded and squeezed out of his kitchen and went into the bedroom to grab some clean clothes. He wasn’t all that surprised to find the bed neatly made; the pajamas he’d left out carefully had been folded and left at the foot of the bed.

His shower was one of the fastest he’d ever taken, and since it was Saturday, he didn’t bother with a shave. Looking out the window, Peter grimaced at the steady drizzle. At least it wasn’t snow.

Fully dressed and feeling a hell of a lot less disoriented, he went into the living room. Reese was back at the Pederson files and Peter couldn’t stop feeling worried about their presence. “I know I shouldn’t have brought them home … ”

Reese looked up, a slightly exasperated look on his face. “No, you shouldn’t have. But it’s not like I can write you up. I’d have to explain what I was doing in your apartment.”

Peter was struck by the absurdity of the situation. The settlement in the Buttino case meant that the FBI would no longer discharge or otherwise discipline gay and lesbian employees because of their sexual orientation. But there were still fraternization rules, and offering your supervising agent a bed for the night – even if the offer was made out of compassion – was probably something that would be deeply frowned upon.

“I’ll get the files back to the office on Monday.”

“Good idea.”

Peter’s stomach rumbled and he clamped a hand over it, hoping that Reese hadn’t heard the embarrassing noise.

He had, but rather than comment, Reese asked, “Anyplace around here that you’d recommend for breakfast?”

“There’s a bagel place on the corner of Ninth and Twenty-Third.”

The wind blew the cold drizzle in their faces and Peter actually found himself wishing for snow. It had to be better that this stinging icy crap. The place was filled with the typical Saturday morning crowd and they waited a few minutes for a table.

Something occurred to Peter as he was eating and he spoke without considering the ramifications. “Do you need help with …” He swallowed before continuing, “Aaron’s stuff?”

Reese wiped his mouth and gave Peter a considering look. “Are you offering?”

He nodded. “I have the time. Would be happy to help if you want.”

“I think that’s why I don’t want to go home. I can’t deal with it by myself.” Reese stared at his coffee.

“I remembered what you said about Aaron’s family.”

Reese sighed. “Yeah. His parents are long gone; no one else survived the camps. For a lot of reasons, he didn’t remain part of his people’s community, which was a shame. We didn’t have a lot of close friends, to tell you the truth.”

Peter had expected that Reese lived nearby; the bar where he’d found him was a place favored by locals. But he didn’t – his apartment was all the way uptown, in a pre-War building in Fort Washington, within walking distance from the Cloisters.

He ended up spending the better part of the weekend helping Reese sort through his partner’s clothes and shoes, packing up what Reese wanted to save, arranging for pickups for what was being donated.

In the process, Peter learned a lot about the daily life of two people completely devoted to each other, but not blind to the other’s foibles. At some point on Saturday, Reese opened up about Aaron, and Peter let him talk. He couldn’t remember answering or commenting, just listening to the older man ramble. There were moments of anger and frustration, but there was joy and happiness, too.

He slept on the couch Saturday night, but went home to his apartment on Sunday for a quick shower and a clean set of clothes early Sunday morning, making it back before Reese was awake.

A little after six on Sunday night, just as Peter tied off the last bag of clothing, Reese made an not-so-idle comment. “Aaron would have had a word for what you’ve done for us. A mitzvah.”

Peter had heard the word before, but he wasn’t sure what it meant in this context.

Reese explained. “It means ‘an act of human kindness’.”

Peter shrugged, embarrassed. “I just …”

Reese walked over to the window and stared out at the cold, wet darkness. The neighborhood was decorated for both Christmas and Chanukah, the lights creating a pleasing rainbow that glinted and glimmered in the rain. “Go home, Peter. Enjoy your Christmas Eve. I’ll be fine.”

Peter wasn’t so sure about that. Christmas was a hard day to spend alone, and he could only imagine how much harder it would be if you were grieving. “How about dinner, first? We both have to eat.”

 

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At some point, Peter had gotten up and started to pace back and forth across the room, finding it easier to talk when he was moving. According to the clock, he’d been talking non-stop for over an hour and it felt like he was no closer to the end of the story than he was when he’d started talking.

But the telling felt good, and he couldn’t help but see the parallels between what he’d done for Reese all those years ago and what Neal was doing for him now.

“I know I said that Reese and I were lovers, and I can imagine what you’re thinking – that we’d gotten drunk that night and fell into bed. That Reese needed someone to hold and I was there.”

Neal, of course, didn’t say anything, but he gave Peter a curious look.

“That wasn’t what happened. That would have been wrong and damaging to both of us. I told you about this because – well – I wanted you to know what type of man Reese is. Can you see that?”

Neal nodded and leaned forward, waiting for the next part of the story.

“We had dinner on Christmas Eve and I ended up staying at Reese’s apartment that night. He had told me that since he was a practicing atheist and Aaron had been agnostic and barely kept the rituals of his people, Christmas was meaningless to him, but it just seemed wrong to leave him alone. I went home in the morning and used the day as an opportunity to return the Pederson files to the office. We didn’t see each other again until after New Year’s.”

Peter started to pace again. He was telling Neal things he hadn’t talked about in so long. Of course he’d told El, before they were married; it was something she needed to know. Sharing this piece of his past with Neal seemed to carry the same importance.

“When I got back to work after my vacation, Reese was back, too. Or I should say, ‘Agent Hughes’. Whatever happened during those days before Christmas had nothing to do with the FBI, and he was – first and foremost – my supervising agent. He treated me exactly like he had before, with the same gruff and demanding kindness that he had for every agent under his watch.

“About two weeks into the New Year, at a routine staff meeting, he asked me if I’d made any progress on the Pederson case. That was all he said – nothing about tracking down the secretary. I hadn’t expected to be called on and I pretty much made an ass out of myself, but Hughes saved me, asking if I had any leads to follow up, if there were any personnel that hadn’t been interviewed.”

Peter smiled at the memory of his younger self and glanced over at Neal, who was smiling, too. But then, Neal usually was smiling – yet there was something else in this one, a feeling of kinship and understanding.

“Yeah, he threw me a slow one – right down the middle – and I hit it right on the sweet spot. Anyway, I don’t need to bore you with the details of the case. But it turned out that Pederson’s temporary secretary, Rachel Turner, was the granddaughter of a Russian mobster. Her mother had married a westerner and she was no longer considered part of the ‘family’. But Rachel seemed to have developed a relationship with her grandfather, and she was the one, not Pederson, who was the conduit for the insider information. We were able to flip her, but we still needed to get inside her organization to bring down the big players. Hughes found out that I was fluent in Russian and the next thing I knew, I was going undercover with him.”

Peter had to comment on the skeptical look in Neal’s eyes. At least he thought it was skepticism. It could have been concern or compassion. The late afternoon light made it difficult to read his face. “Yeah, I know that probies don’t go undercover. But I wasn’t going alone. Hughes had an established alias as a Russian oligarch, so he approached Petrov with the story that he was looking to hide some assets in the U.S. I was supposed to be background, muscle, keep my mouth shut and my eyes open. It should have been easy – just an intelligence gathering operation at a seedy tearoom in Brighton Beach.”

Despite the odd light in the room, Peter could read the question, ‘but what happened’ on Neal’s face as easily as a headline on the Post.

“It turned out that the secretary wasn’t as flipped as we’d thought she was. She’d gotten a message to her twin brother, Anton, who was more than a little crazy. The bastard grabbed Reese as we were leaving – he wanted to make a big show of taking down an FBI agent, which was a damn stupid move. I was held up for a few seconds; Petrov’s guards were giving me the business about my gun.

“He was screaming that he’d show everyone that he’s got the biggest _yáytsa_ in the organization – that’s balls in Russian – and he was going to execute an FBI agent right there, on Coney Island Avenue, in broad daylight. He had a gun at Reese’s head and – ” Peter took a deep breath, “and I could see his finger squeezing the trigger. None of Petrov’s guards were going to interfere. I drew on the bastard, I had a clear head shot but head shots are dicey things.” Almost irrelevantly, Peter added, “We’re trained to aim for the torso – for the area of greatest mass.”

The last of the November daylight was gone; Peter turned on the lamp next to the couch and sat down, the memories exhausting him.

“Reese kept still. He knew if he struggled, I’d lose the shot. He also trusted me to do what needed to be done. So I did. I shot Anton Turner between the eyes. I killed him.”

The memory of the young man lying on a frozen street, blood oozing out of the hole in his forehead, still had the power to make him sick. Which was only right.

“Someone must have called the police, because I remembered hearing sirens. Old man Petrov’s guards disappeared and Reese and I were left to clean up the mess. And it was one hell of a mess. We’d inadvertently stepped into an active NYPD investigation. They’d kept us under lock and key for hours afterwards, then I had to deal with the inevitable OPR reports. I think it was close to one in the morning before I was released. I remember walking out of the FBI building and not knowing how the hell I was going to get home. It’s hard to get a cab in that neighborhood at that hour. Next thing I know, Reese is there and he’s pulling me towards an FBI pool car. He’d gotten someone to take both of us home.”

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

 

Agent Hughes was back to being ‘Reese’ when he’d told Peter that he was going uptown and would stay the night at his apartment.

Peter didn’t argue. He couldn’t remember ever being this tired, not even the time he stayed up for thirty-six hours straight writing his final term paper at Harvard, not after completing the endurance tests at Quantico. This was more than a physical or even a mental exhaustion. It was an exhaustion of the soul.

He’d killed another human being. He ended someone’s life with his gun.

Thinking about the body on the street, a neat round hole in his head, his eyes wide open, sightless, made him sick. “Stop. Stop the car.”

The driver pulled over. Peter rushed out and retched into a trash can. He started and he couldn’t stop, clinging to the metal frame. He felt his knees give out, his arms were shaking and he would have fallen over, but for the strong arms that were suddenly wrapped around him.

“I’ve got you, Peter. I’ve got you.”

He retched one more time, took a deep breath and waited for the nausea to hit him again, but it didn’t. Reese handed him his handkerchief and Peter wiped his mouth gratefully. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Reese continued to hold him until Peter was able to walk back to the car.

This time, Reese got into the back seat with him and Peter was struck by the intense desire to just rest his head against the other man’s shoulder and sleep. Maybe he did, because it seemed like barely a minute had passed when the car came to a stop in front of Reese’s apartment building.

Peter struggled to get out of the car, feeling woozy and sick again.

Reese pressed him back against the seat. “There’s no rush. Just take your time.”

Peter wanted to disagree. The agent who was driving probably wanted to get home. “I’m okay.” He managed to get his feet out of the car, then his whole body. The night air was bracing and it smelled like snow. Peter wouldn’t mind snow at all, a blanket of white to cover the dirt, to hush and silence the world for a little while. He breathed deeply, the fog in his head clearing little more.

The window next to the driver was closed and Peter tapped on it. The driver rolled down the window, and he was surprised to see it was Mitchell Watson, a senior agent who headed the Organized Crime task force. Peter felt like an idiot, but he thanked the man for going out of his way to take him here.

“No, thank you, Agent Burke. You saved a life today. Don’t forget that.”

Peter stepped back as if he’d been slapped. In the midst of everything, that was something he’ forgotten.

Agent Watson rolled up the window and as Reese tugged him over to the sidewalk, the black sedan pulled away from the curb and disappeared into the early morning traffic.

Peter didn’t say anything as Reese led him up to his apartment. He didn’t protest or struggle as the man stripped him and pushed him into a hot shower. He stood under the cascading water, letting it wash away the sickness and the trauma. But it couldn’t wash away the memory of Anton Turner lying dead on the street.

He stayed in the shower until he felt dizzy. Through the patterned glass door, he could see Reese standing there, holding a towel, waiting for him. Peter turned off the water and with no shame or embarrassment; he stepped out of the shower. Reese looked him in the eye as he wrapped the towel around him, then handed him another one for his hair.

“There’s a clean toothbrush and a robe. Don’t rush.” Reese left the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

Peter couldn’t remember being quite as grateful to anyone for anything as he was to Reese for this small kindness: not for the ride home, not for the shower, not even for the towel, but for the damn toothbrush. His mouth tasted like vomit and he wanted to cry.

He took a deep breath and managed to gain some control over his emotions. Of all the foolish things to get weepy over – a damned toothbrush. Peter sighed and looked at himself in the mirror and was shocked. He was twenty-eight, but the man reflected back seemed to be twice that age.

He looked away, focusing instead on the toothbrush, absently noting that Reese seemed to prefer cinnamon-flavored toothpaste, which did an excellent job of cleaning the sour taste out of his mouth.

The promised robe was long and plush and never worn. A few weeks ago, when he’d helped Reese clear out Aaron’s clothes, there was one item that Reese had insisted on keeping – a tatty old bathrobe. He’d told Peter, in dry tones that didn’t really mask the underlying emotion, that it had been a joke between them. For a decade and a half, he’d bitched about his partner’s disgusting old robe and every few years, he’d give him a new one, which Aaron would promptly stick in the back of the closet, where it would hang, unworn and unloved.

The robe that Peter put on was one of those. He felt a little weird about wearing a gift to a dead man, but maybe that was better than feeling like a murderer.

Reese was waiting for him in the living room, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He’d taken off his jacket and his cuffs were unbuttoned, but he still looked every inch the ASAC, until Peter noticed how the man’s hands were shaking.

“Umm, thank you – for this.” Peter brushed a hand against the robe before shoving his own shaking hands into the pockets.

“It’s the least I can do.” Reese put the glass down and very deliberately walked away from it. “The first time I shot and killed someone, my ASAC took me to the nearest bar and helped me work my way through a fifth of gin. Told me I did a good job, ridding the world of a worthless piece of scum. Except that that ‘worthless piece of scum’ was a twenty year old college kid getting squeezed by his uncle to join the family business. I don’t think the boy had ever held a gun before.”

Peter wasn’t sure if he believed Reese, that this wasn’t some story designed to make him feel better. He wasn’t sure if he cared. “Can I have a glass of gin? I don’t know if I could make it through a fifth, though.”

“No. Drinking isn’t going to fix what happened, oblivion won’t change what you did. You killed someone in defense of another. You did what you were trained to do, what you were supposed to do. You did your job and you didn’t flinch.”

“Then why do I feel like crap?”

Reese didn’t pull his punches. “Because you’re supposed to. You killed someone. It’s supposed to hurt.”

Peter made his way over to the couch, almost too exhausted to stay on his feet. Reese intercepted him.

“No, come on – not here.”

Peter balked. “The couch is fine. I’ve slept on it before.”

“Peter, let me return the favor, okay?”

All he wanted was to get horizontal, to put his head down and not move for a week. To fall into the oblivion of sleep and forget that he’d killed someone. He’d done his job, but someone was dead because of him. The bleak thoughts continued to spiral as Reese tugged him towards the bedroom.

“Come on, just a few more steps.”

The bed looked like heaven and Peter didn’t care that he was naked when he shucked the robe and climbed under the covers.

Peter rolled onto his side, tucking an arm under his head. His brain tried to form words, his mouth tried to thank Reese, but he couldn’t seem to express anything more than a yawn.

“Sleep, Peter.” Reese turned off the light and left.

As exhausted as he was, he should have fallen asleep immediately, but of course he couldn’t. In the warm darkness, all Peter could see was Anton Turner, one arm wrapped around Reese’s throat, holding a gun to his head and screaming, “I’m going to kill him, and you’re all going to watch.”

Peter could see the fear in Reese’s eyes, and resignation that this might very well be his time to die. But there was trust, too.

In the darkness, Peter was back on that dingy, windswept boulevard in Brighton Beach and his arms were shaking and he knew that if he pulled the trigger, he’d more than likely kill Reese than kill the man holding the gun on him.

As he lay there, holding onto himself, Peter remembered something. Inexplicably, a feather – a large white feather – drifted across his field of vision and everything in him slowed down and steadied. He could see Turner’s finger tighten on the trigger, he could see the drops of sweat on his forehead and he found the stillness in him to do what needed to be done.

He pulled the trigger.

Sleep must have claimed him, because this had to be a dream. It wasn’t Anton Turner lying on the street with a hole in his head, it wasn’t Reese. It was him – he was the dead man, eyes open and sightless in the bleak winter sunshine and there were feathers everywhere, covering him like a blanket.

“Peter!”

He opened his eyes and the darkness evaporated in a burst of light. He was confused and disoriented in the unfamiliar room. His eyes finally adjusted to the brightness. Reese was standing at the side of the bed and Peter grabbed his wrist. He needed an anchor, something to hold him in this reality. “Are we dead?”

“No, Peter, we’re very much alive.”

“What happened?”

“You had a nightmare, you were screaming. Were you dreaming about the shooting?”

Peter nodded. “I was the one who was dead – I remember shooting Turner, but it was me on the ground.” He tried to make himself let go of Reese’s hand, but his fingers wouldn’t obey.

Reese didn’t seem to care. He moved closer and sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry you have to deal with this. I know I said you were doing your job, but you’re still a damn probie.”

“I’m twenty-eight.”

“And that doesn’t mean squat.”

“I’m not a kid.”

“No, you’re not, but you’re not a seasoned agent either. I know who you are, Peter Burke. And who you aren’t. You’re not someone who joined the Bureau looking for guns and glory. You became an FBI agent because you wanted to make a difference. Don’t let what happened yesterday change that.”

Peter nodded, but he couldn’t shake the sense of confusion, the anxiety, the feeling that nothing was ever going to be right again.

Reese tried to tug his hand free, but Peter still wouldn’t let go. “Peter –”

Peter licked his lips. “Don’t go. I don’t want to be alone.” He hated how needy he sounded, and he was probably making the biggest mistake of his life. But something in Reese’s face softened. There was compassion, but more than that. It wasn’t really desire, but a need, a hunger for the closeness of another human being.

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

 

Neal wanted to weep.

He’d seen the tragedy as it happened, but in Peter’s retelling, Neal could see it unfold again. He remembered reaching out, wanting desperately to reach through the mirror pool and stop everything, to reset the players and start time running again only when Peter was safe.

The story, as Peter told it, was terrifying. When Peter mentioned a feather drifting across his field of vision; when he’d said that in his dream that he’d been covered in white feathers, Neal couldn’t shake the feeling that something happened that shouldn’t have. He now wondered and worried that in his watching, he’d somehow changed the course of events – that Peter should not have lived.

That he’d interfered and as a result, he’d damaged the soul that he’d watched over and cared for. That he loved.

“Hey – you okay?”

Peter was kneeling in front of him, a worried look on his face.

Neal nodded and gave him a small smile, still distracted by his thoughts.

“You’re not disgusted that Reese and I …”

That brought Neal’s attention back to Peter. Over the past month, he’d come to terms with the loss of his voice – they seemed to communicate perfectly without it. Neal was certain there were times that Peter was reading his thoughts. And even when he wasn’t, Peter seemed particularly attuned to his emotions. It was a constant source of wonder to Neal; he hadn’t expected their connection to work both ways.

But this wasn’t one of those times and Peter had completely misread Neal’s thoughts. He was far from disgusted and he couldn’t seem to find a way to let Peter know that. A smile and a shrug wouldn’t do.

As the moments passed, Peter’s expression darkened, perhaps remembering other slights. Neal smiled and shook his head. Peter didn’t seem mollified.

So Neal did the only thing he could think of. He pressed a hand over his own heart, then his head. But Peter was getting stubborn in his anger and he stalked away. Neal reached out and grabbed him, holding his wrist tightly; ignoring the bright, almost painful surge of electricity he always felt when he was the one to initiate physical contact.

Peter stopped, but Neal wasn’t sure if he felt the same shock that he did. This time, Neal put his hand over Peter’s heart, and he kept his movement slow and careful. The spark came again, but it was deeper, richer. To Neal, it evoked the memory of tangling plumage with another Archon.

Peter gasped at the contact, but it wasn’t one of pain. Neal could read a flicker of desire, an echo of what he, himself, had just felt. But this wasn’t why he touched Peter. Neal needed him to realize that he understood what Reese meant to him – at that moment and now. He pressed his hand a little harder against Peter’s chest, and then slid his palm up to his temple, trying to tell Peter that neither the head nor the heart needs to be justified. Love just _is._

He seemed to get the message and Neal reluctantly let go, but kept his eyes glued to Peter’s, watching for any sign of anger, that there was still a miscommunication between them. There wasn’t. Peter smiled and Neal felt his own lips curving up in answer.

“Sorry – it’s not something I’ve talked about and, well, there’s the age difference and …” Peter shook his head. “Sorry – I don’t need to justify anything, do I?”

Neal did something he rarely did; he mouthed the word “no.”

“You’re right, I don’t. Reese and I – well, it happened just that one time. And to be honest, it wasn’t very good. The sex, I mean. I think we both just needed the comfort, to know that we weren’t alone. And it wasn’t like we pretended it never happened. Hell, when I told him I was dating a woman, he asked me if he’d turned me off men.”

Neal felt the laughter bubble up, an emotion reflected in Peter’s eyes.

“Yeah – so that’s the story of me and Reese Hughes, warts and all.”

At that moment, Neal envied Peter. He envied the close bond he had with the other man, a friendship that was so rare amongst the Archons, but common between mortals. And for all its commonness, it was still something to be treasured.

Maybe his relationship with Matthew came close – there was affection between them, but it was still a shadow of what Peter had with Reese. It lacked that essential element of trust that humans shared, which was only right. Few Archons bonded with each other; such relationships would interfere with their responsibilities to the souls they watched over.

“Reese wants us to come for Thanksgiving. Do you want to go?”

He nodded, thinking why not. Listening to Peter talk about his friend made him want to know the man better. Then the reality of the invitation hit Neal, hard and joyfully – like a massed chorus of voices raised in song. Peter was expecting him to stay forever, that he was truly a part of his life.

This time, Peter had no awareness of Neal’s epiphany. He just went into the kitchen and started the mundane task of fixing dinner.

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

 

A little before three, just a week after Reese’s visit, Peter received a text message from the place where he kept that post office box letting him know he had a letter. It was worth the added expense to get the alerts, freeing him from the need to check the box every few days.

Peter wondered what Mozzie was up to, and for the first time since – well, since Neal had dropped into his life – he felt a little nostalgic for his badge and gun. Despite the mess that resulted from the last time Moz had shared information, which resulted in a dead U.S. Senator and his own forced retirement, the leads he’d provided had always been solid, contributing to his enviable conviction record. It would be hard to cut the little guy loose, but it had to be done. He had to tell Moz that he was no longer in the Suit business.

Maybe he’d give Moz contact information for Clinton or Diana. No, not Diana. She’d eat him alive. But Clinton would be good with him; he’d indulge the man’s craziness up to a point.

But first, he needed to retrieve the contents from his private post office box. Since it was mid-November, Peter expected that he’d find the inevitable tickets to a Christmas-themed concert. Or maybe not. Mozzie had eclectic tastes, and as long as the music was sacred and being performed in New York City, it was fair game. Remembering some of the concerts he’d sat through for the sake of a solid lead, Peter figured that was just as likely that he’d be going to a concert of sacred Kagura music and dance, or a public display of Zoroastrian rites, as it was to the season’s first recital of Handel’s _Messiah_. Regardless, he’d bring Neal with him – both to the mailbox and the concert. The man loved music and it would be a treat to watch him enjoy a live performance.

Neal was at the dining room table, sketching something. Peter was insatiably curious, but he couldn’t bring himself to peek inside Neal’s sketchbook. It seemed too personal, too private, and he feared that if he looked without an invitation, he’d irreparably damage something between them.

In the week since Reese’s visit, Peter felt the attraction between him and Neal grow. It was almost palpable in the silence between them. Peter found himself dreaming about Neal, vividly sexual dreams, the likes of which he hadn’t had since he’d been a teenager, but far darker than his boyhood fantasies. He dreamed of fucking Neal on every surface in the house, of dragging him out to the back yard, putting him on his knees in the very spot where he’d landed and fucking him until he found his voice, until he screamed. And some his fantasies were tender, too. He dreamed of the art that decorated Neal’s back and wanted to trace those feathers with his tongue and lips, to count them, name them.

Almost every night, Peter woke with his cock hard enough to break stone, mere heartbeats from orgasm, dreams of him and Neal barely fading from consciousness. Just this morning, he’d gotten up and was at Neal’s bedroom door before he’d fully realized what he was about to do. Instead of invading Neal’s privacy, he went into the bathroom and beat off under a hot shower.

And despite his caution, Peter was almost certain that if he made a move towards Neal, if he expressed any of this pent up longing, it would be welcomed and joyously reciprocated. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to make that first move. It wasn’t the memory of Elizabeth stopping him. He’d come to truly believe that she’d want him to be happy, to live his life to the fullest.

Peter couldn’t seem to figure out what was stopping him. He knew that if Neal made the first move, he’d accept it eagerly, and they’d be beautiful together. But for some reason, he couldn’t take that first step, cross the line from an unlikely and inexplicable friendship to something else entirely.

Neal was working intently, unaware that he had a smudge of charcoal on his cheek and another across his lips. Peter wondered if there was a more beautiful man in the world. In a way, that thought bothered him. He’d never considered himself bound by convention, requiring physical perfection from his partners – male or female. But he couldn’t deny that Neal’s almost unearthly grace and beauty was an irresistible magnet.

That might explain why, on one of the very few times he’d left the house without Neal, he’d stopped at the drugstore and bought condoms and lube. The thought of those sundries, tucked away in his night table drawer made him blush.

At that moment, Neal looked up; his ever-present smile a touch secretive. It was almost as if he knew just what he’d been thinking. Peter felt himself blush even harder and looked back at the Sunday Times crossword puzzle; there were still a few clues left to solve. Except that Neal wasn’t making it easy. He’d put down his sketchbook and pencil and joined him at the kitchen island, leaning over him, getting deep into his space – yet carefully _not_ touching him.

Peter edged away, uncomfortable at his body’s sudden and intense reaction. Neal stepped back, a hurt expression on his face, and Peter felt like a heel. Instead of apologizing – because nothing he’d done needed an apology – he asked Neal if he’d like to go for a walk. “I need to check on something, and it’s a nice day. We can get some fresh air.”

Neal’s smile turned wry. He probably knew just what he, Peter, was doing: deflecting both of them away from the elephant in the room. Peter watched as Neal retrieved his socks and shoes and put them on, wondering again at the other man’s insistence on remaining barefoot as much as possible, despite the sinking temperatures and the undoubtedly cold floor.

It _was_ a nice day and the walk to the UPS store on Baltic Street and Fourth Avenue took about fifteen minutes. Or should have, except that Neal needed to stop and pet every dog they passed along the way. The dogs, including the normally dyspeptic Afghan hound that lived a few doors away, were ecstatic at the attention, and all but yanked their walkers off their feet to get to Neal.

Peter sighed and tried not to show any irritation when both a Cavalier King Charles spaniel and the spaniel’s owner tried to hump Neal’s leg. The dog’s owner, a girl – who looked no more than seventeen – kept pulling her already low-cut shirt down, exposing the tops of her nipples. Peter was about to tell her that she’d get pneumonia when Neal did the unthinkable. He took Peter’s gloved hand in his and lifted it to his lips, pressing a kiss against the back of his fingers, a very clear declaration of _something_. Of course, Peter felt that spark – the one that always zinged through his blood whenever Neal touched him. At first, it was muted through the layers of wool and leather, but the electricity almost burned through his glove when Neal touched his lips to his hand.

The girl sniffed, yanked on the spaniel’s leash and pulled him away. The dog whimpered, gave Neal a sad look and trotted off after his mistress.

Peter didn’t want to talk about that kiss, although he was dying to pull Neal back to the house and see if his own kisses could create such electricity. Instead, he asked, “What is it with you and dogs?”

Neal just shoved his hands in his coat pockets and shrugged. Peter could almost hear him say, _“I like dogs, they like me. Is that a problem?”_

And Peter found himself answering that unspoken question, “No, of course not. I like dogs, too. I still miss Satchmo.”

Neal’s look of surprise at Peter’s response turned to one of shared grief and compassion and he wondered, not for the first time, just who Neal had lost.

The brisk November day turned brisker and a stiff wind propelled them up Baltic Street and practically into the small packaging store where Peter kept the mailbox. As promised, there was something in his box – a single white envelope, addressed as always, to ‘P. Suit’. Mozzie did have a quirky sense of humor.

The tickets inside were a pleasant surprise – a performance of one of Antonio Vivaldi’s _Glorias_. Actually _the_ Vivaldi _Gloria_. He’d never thought of himself as an aficionado of classical music, but his association with Mozzie had given him both an education and an appreciation for the stuff. And the venue for the performance was especially fine: the Fuentiduena Chapel at the Cloisters. He’d been there once or twice and enjoyed it immensely.

Neal looked over his shoulder at the tickets.

“You’ll enjoy this. It’s for tomorrow afternoon. We could meet Reese and David for dinner after the concert. They live only a few minutes’ walk away from the Cloisters. ”

Neal seemed confused and held up two fingers, pointing once at Peter and once in the general direction of elsewhere.

“I’ll get you a ticket, don’t worry. I’m not leaving you behind.” Peter was about to wonder why Neal was worried about only two tickets – he’d not yet explained Moz’s quirky requirements. But Neal smiled and he forgot everything. At that moment, Peter felt himself drowning in the warm blueness of Neal’s gaze. Something settled inside him. The existential anxiety and indecision about his desire faded. All he wanted to do was go home. In the quiet space of his own head, Peter thought with increasing certainty, _make love to him._

The walk back to the house seemed to take twice as long, fighting a stiff headwind. At least the dogs and their walkers left Neal alone.

As they turned the corner onto Warren Street, with the house just a half-block away, Peter was looking forward to getting inside, lighting a fire, relaxing with a glass of wine and getting Neal into his arms.

Except that two old friends were sitting on his front steps, waiting for him.

“Diana, Clinton – what brings you here?” He hoped he didn’t sound as annoyed as he felt.

Clinton answered, “Something’s come up. We need to talk to you.”

“Okay – then let’s get out of the wind.” As Peter climbed his front steps, the cold evening air suddenly felt twice as cold. He looked back, and Neal was waiting at the bottom of the steps, hands in his pockets, looking like he was about to stand there for the rest of the night. “Neal?”

He waited patiently for Neal to get his ass in gear and go inside. Except that Neal wasn’t moving. His gaze kept flickering from him to the two agents.

Peter wasn’t at all sure what was going on inside Neal’s head, but whatever it was, it needed to stop. He sighed and made the formal introductions. “Clinton, Diana – this is my good friend, Neal. Neal, this is Diana Berrigan and Clinton Jones. They used to work for me. Now, please, can we all go inside before we freeze to death?’

Neal still seemed reluctant.

“Oh, for crying out loud.” He grabbed Neal’s hand and pulled him inside.

Neal looked from him to Clinton and then to Diana, and if Peter didn’t know better, he’d think that the other man was terrified. Rather than make a big deal of it, he ignored Neal’s odd behavior. But that meant ignoring the weird looks from Clinton and Diana, and to be honest, they deserved some kind of explanation.

“Look, Neal’s mute. He doesn’t talk but he hears just fine.” Peter knew he was behaving like a bear with a bad tooth as he stomped into the kitchen, fetched four bottles of beer and passed them around. He smiled and apologized to Neal as he gave him a bottle but Neal didn’t take it. He didn’t smile; he just kept staring at Diana and Clinton with unnerving intensity. Peter still couldn’t figure out what was going on inside his head.

He turned back to Clinton and Diana. “You said something came up and you needed to see me?” He hoped they weren’t going to ask him about a case. He had made a choice and left that life behind him.

Clinton reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. “This came for you this afternoon. It’s from the Bureau of Prisons. I opened it.”

Peter took the envelope, which was neatly slit opened. “I get these all of the time. You do, too. Why are you making such a big deal of it?”

Diana answered this time. “Take a look, Peter.”

Peter pulled the single sheet of paper out and read it. _“Please be advised that Rachel Turner has completed the full term of her twenty-year sentence in the matter of U.S. v. Rachel Turner, et al., and has been released from Alderson Federal Prison Camp.”_ He blinked, surprised to see that name. “It’s really been twenty years?”

“Peter – she made death threats against you.” Diana actually seemed worried.

“How do you know that?”

“I looked up the trial. You never mentioned this case.”

Peter shrugged, uncomfortable with the memory. “If you looked up the case, you know what happened.”

“Yeah, you killed her brother after he took Agent Hughes hostage. You were still a probie when it happened.”

“Which means it was a very long time ago, guys. You really don’t think she’s going to come after me?”

“You killed her brother, Peter. She made some pretty specific threats when they took her into custody. She said that she’d make you pay if it took her the rest of her life. She’s been out of prison for a week – she could be here in New York.”

“Guys, look, I appreciate the concern, but I’m sure that there’s nothing to worry about.”

Neither of his friends looked convinced, and Clinton got that stubborn look that Peter knew all too well. That doggedness was one of the qualities that made him such an excellent agent. It was also annoying as hell. “Okay, okay. What do you think I should do?”

Clinton suggested, “Let us talk to the local precinct. You’re a retired FBI agent; they’ll look out for you. We can have them send a car around every night. Also, you should think about upgrading your security system. Also, you should carry your gun when you leave your house.”

That was something he didn’t want to do. “I’m retired, guys. I don’t wear a badge anymore.”

Diana, of course, corrected him. “As a retired law enforcement officer, you have a permanent concealed carry license. It’s Federal law.”

Peter sighed, giving in because it was easier than arguing. “Look, you can let the precinct know, but I honestly don’t think they’re going to do a damned thing. The police have better things to do than watch my house.”

Clinton and Diana nodded – not so much in agreement. They also kept sneaking glances over at Neal, who hadn’t moved from the corner of the dining room. It was pretty clear that they wanted to know who he was and why he was here, but Peter was in no mood to explain. He wanted them gone; he wanted to regain the joyful anticipation of spending the evening with Neal. He didn’t want to think about a killing that happened twenty years ago. He’d already thought about it too much over the past few weeks.

The moment descended into awkwardness. Diana and Clinton left their beer untouched and tried to make small talk. Peter tried to get them out the door without being too obvious. When they finally left, after securing his promise take all possible precautions, Peter locked the door behind them with no small amount of relief and turned to Neal, wanting answers that the man was unable to give him.

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

Neal was struck with dread the moment he saw the two FBI agents waiting in front of Peter’s house. He was familiar with fear, but this cold, paralyzing terror was not something he’d ever experienced before.

Peter’s colleagues looked like decent people. The woman almost glowed with the new life inside her, a life she didn’t yet realize she carried. The man was strong, honorable, and had a soul that had been watched over for hundreds of lives. Neal wondered, if he had shaken this man’s hand, whether he’d have learned which Archon was looking out for him.

But he was overwhelmed by the sense of impending doom. He didn’t understand it – these were good people, they meant no harm to Peter. But when the man – Clinton – handed Peter the letter and Peter read it, the dread grew.

This woman, the sister of the man Peter had killed so long ago, was going to be the instrument of Peter’s death. Neal was certain of it. He was also certain that there was nothing he could do to prevent it.

“Neal?” Peter was standing in front of him, worry clouding his eyes. “What’s the matter?”

He cursed his muteness, he cursed the bindings, and he cursed the knowledge that there was nothing he could say to Peter that would make him believe that his life was in danger.

Instead, he forced a lie of a smile to his lips and gave the man his usual shrug. It didn’t work. Peter was still concerned.

Neal picked up his sketchpad and pencil and drew the image that was imprinted in his brain – a woman with a gun standing over Peter’s dead body.

Peter didn’t laugh, but he didn’t seem to take Neal’s vision seriously. “There’s nothing to worry about. She’s not coming here. If the authorities thought she was a threat, I would have been told. What Clinton and Diana brought was strictly pro forma. The Bureau of Prisons always sends those letters to the arresting officer when the prisoner is released.”

Neal knew that, but he also knew – beyond reason – that Rachel Turner was going to kill Peter.

“Hey, hey – it’s okay. If you’re that worried, I’ll do what Di and Clinton suggested. I’ll carry my gun when we go out, I’ll have the alarm company come in and upgrade the system. Hell, I’ll even ask the local PD to keep an eye out for her. Nothing will happen to me, okay?” He touched Neal, cupping his hand around his cheek, comforting him. His palm was so warm, so wonderful against his skin.

Peter was so earnest, so willing to appease his fears. But it was all going to be for nothing. He was going to die.

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

Peter didn’t know what was going on with Neal. To be so frightened by nothing. For all the contradictions of Neal’s presence in his life – his sudden and bizarre entry, his muteness, his almost supernatural ability to comprehend his emotions – Peter always believed that Neal had a very firm grounding in reality.

But Neal seemed far too shaken by something completely irrational. And remembering Neal’s reluctance to interact with Diana and Clinton, he had to wonder. If it was anyone else, he’d say that they were afraid of the law, but Neal knew he was a recently retired FBI agent.

It had been one of the things he’d told Neal, that first morning. They’d gone for breakfast and Peter had laid out the law, trying like hell not to be charmed by the man’s silence and his smile. He’d explained that although he was retired, he wouldn’t hesitate to have him arrested if he did anything hinky. Neal had kept on smiling, he nodded and pulled out a pencil from his pocket, turned over the diner placemat and made a quick sketch of himself in handcuffs, behind bars. Peter had laughed, and said “Exactly, so behave.”

And to be honest, he didn’t actually seem afraid of Clinton or Diana in the way that someone with a guilty conscience might. He didn’t try to run; he wasn’t really trying to hide. Neal was just not behaving like he’d come to expect.

And for all that he told his friends that he was retired, Peter knew that he’d never stop looking at problems as if he was still an agent. It was more than that, too. He was worried.

Neal mattered to him. He mattered greatly and seeing him so troubled, so frightened, hurt.

“Stop worrying, okay?”

Neal just kept looking at him, his mouth grave, his eyes so wide it seemed like Peter could drown in them.

He wrapped his arms around Neal and brought him close, until they were connected from shoulder to hip, until their foreheads rested against each other. He could feel the licks of fire on his back as Neal’s hands gripped his shoulders.

“Please, please don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen, I promise.”

Neal leaned into him for a second, maybe two, and Peter held his breath as he felt Neal’s lips brush his cheek, then his own lips. The spark was muted and Neal stepped away, gently, emphatically breaking his hold. Peter watched Neal walk away and wanted to weep. This was not how the evening was supposed to end.

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

As much as he needed to stay close to Peter, Neal needed to escape more. Ignoring the hurt expression on the other man’s face, Neal fled upstairs and tried to find some peace within the solitude of the small bedroom. He paced, counting off the length in a half-dozen steps forward, then back. For the first time since he’d landed, Neal truly missed his wings – or more to the point, he missed being able to take flight, to soar through the clouds and forget the world and its problems.

And worse, he missed his companions. Matthew, for all his wickedness. June and her love and unyielding wisdom.

He needed them, he needed his own kind.

_But you made the sacrifice, you knew what you were doing. You wanted this._

Yes, he wanted Peter – he wanted this life and until an hour ago, he was content with his limitations.

Not anymore – those limitations were now a prison and there was no escape.

He was shaking from the terrible emotions. This was worse than learning that the soul he loved was going to end with this life – that Peter, in all his wonderful variations and permutations, would be no more.

Neal went into the bathroom and stared into the mirror, wishing with everything he had that there was someone on the other side, someone watching. That there was someone who would see and mark the passage and loss of this soul, someone who would remember and carry the memory for eternity.

He gripped the mirror’s frame and mouthed a single word. _Please._

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

 

Peter sat in the living room. It was full dark, but he didn’t turn on a light. From the couch, he could see the barest illumination spilling out from under the guest room door and down the stairs. It was broken every few moments, as if someone was passing between the lamp and the door.

Neal was pacing and Peter was lost. The afternoon had such promise.

He picked up the letter from the Bureau of Prisons, turned it over in his hands a few times before tossing it back onto the coffee table. He didn’t need to read it again. It was truly nothing more than the usual courtesy notice. He wondered if Reese had gotten the same letter, if he was concerned about the vengeance Rachel Turner had promised so long ago.

It was strange, but if he hadn’t just told Neal about his relationship with Reese, he might not have even recognized the name. Which was really a terrible thing to have forgotten. He killed her brother, and as bad a man as he was, he deserved better than to be a footnote in his service record.

Not that there was anything Peter could do about it. As he promised Neal, he’d take the precautions that Diana and Clinton suggested, he’d watch the shadows, but he couldn’t make himself believe that there was any real danger. His gut – almost always reliable – was silent.

Peter tried not to think about the last time his gut failed to warn him – the night he came home and found Elizabeth. But that was different, wasn’t it?

The thoughts spiraled around his mind, dark and dangerous. He hadn’t felt like this since …

Since Neal dropped into his life. Neal, who fell out of the sky, smiled at him and made him remember that his life was worth something.

Sitting in the darkness, Peter couldn’t help but remember that it wasn’t the first time someone smiled at him and his life changed. Twelve years ago, he’d been assigned to investigate a suspected tax fraud case at a downtown art gallery. The assistant manager, a pretty and pert brunette – and most likely the anonymous whistleblower – looked up from her computer, smiled at him and he all but forgot how to breathe.

It might have taken him three weeks to get up the nerve to ask her out, but from their very first date, Peter knew that she was the one woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. The one _person_.

 

_“There’s something you need to know about me, El.”_

_They were having dinner at their favorite Italian restaurant in the East Village, and sharing a tiramisu for dessert. Elizabeth was licking her spoon and driving him crazy. She swiped her tongue against the back of the utensil and Peter was very glad he was wearing a suit and not tight fitting jeans._

_She looked up from her pseudo-fellatio and smiled. “I know.”_

_“Huh? You know what?” His heart was pounding._

_“You like men, too.” She bit her bottom lip and gave him an up-from-under look that made his heart race for completely different reasons._

_“El – ”_

_“Am I wrong?”_

_He took a deep breath. “No, you’re not. And I’m not with you because I’m covering or I want a beard or I’m trying to pretend that I’m something I’m not.”_

_“I know that. You’re a god between the sheets, Peter Burke. You couldn’t make me feel the way you do if you were only pretending.”_

_Peter looked down. His hands were shaking – he’d been dreading this conversation and she made it so damn easy for him. “Some people say that there’s no such thing as a true bisexual.” He took a sip of his wine, hoping he sounded casual, as if his life didn’t depend on her answer._

_“And people also say that the ivory-billed woodpecker is extinct, too – but there have been sightings.” El’s smile was full of mischief._

_And that wine nearly went spraying all over her._

_“Peter, relax. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with both liking boys and liking girls.”_

_“So, you don’t mind that I’ve had relationships with men?”_

_“No, of course not. But I have to know, will you want to be with a man when you’re with me? I mean I know it’s really not just about the equipment. But if it is – or you want something I don’t have – we can improvise.”_

_Peter closed his eyes and wondered just how he got so lucky. “El – I know this may sound crazy and a little scary, but from the moment we met, I realized I wanted no one but you.” He held his breath, waiting for her reaction. They’d been dating for almost a year, and she’d moved in with him three months ago. He put his hand, still shaking, into his jacket pocket and fiddled with the ring box._

_El scraped the bottom of the dessert bowl, did that thing with her tongue again and grinned. “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, Peter Burke, will you marry me?”_

Peter looked up at the staircase. The thin line of light had disappeared. Neal wasn’t coming back down tonight. Maybe that was for the best, for now. Because in remembering Elizabeth and the love he had for her, the love he’d always feel, he realized something else.

He loved Neal.

It wasn’t an epiphany; it didn’t hit him out of the blue and steal his breath away. It was like sliding that final puzzle piece into place. He wondered if this was how Reese had felt with David.

To go from grief to acceptance to love felt strange, but also very right.

Peter wasn’t sure what he was going to do about it. The physical relationship he was looking forward to this afternoon was going to happen – there was no question about that. But love brought other complications. He was a man who needed permanence, commitment, fidelity.

He didn’t _think_ Neal would have a problem with any of those needs, but Peter didn’t want to make assumptions, either.

And then there was the greater issue of the mystery that was Neal himself. Peter couldn’t help but wonder how he could tie himself to a man without a last name, without an identity. He wasn’t the kind of person who picked up strays and lost souls, but that’s what he did with Neal, and he never let himself question it. Reese would probably tell him that he was nuts, Diana and Clinton would try to run his prints.

But Peter couldn’t bring himself to worry. Neal was Neal.

_Amor vincit omnia_ Was that all he needed to know? Was that all that mattered?

He pondered the question that was _Neal_ for a few more moments and just decided to ignore it. Neal was here and the most important part of his life, and that didn’t need any further examination.

It wasn’t that late, but he was kind of tired. Might as well make it an early night. Peter snapped on the lights and blinked at the sudden brightness. He checked the lock on the back door, and considering the warnings from Diana and Clinton and Neal’s desperate fears, he went to each window and checked the latches.

And found a small pile of shining white feathers on the floor.

Other than the times he found feathers atop Neal’s bed – always perfectly made – this was the first time he’d found them in a place where he knew that Neal had recently been. When he was talking with Diana and Clinton, Neal had all but retreated to this far corner of the dining room, between the window and the built-in bookcase, not really a place where anyone would normally hang out. In fact, until very recently, a large faux fichus tree occupied that corner. He and Neal had disposed of it (and the excessive amount of dust that decorated the tree) before they’d painted the room a few weeks ago.

Of course, he picked up the feathers and marveled at their unusual weight – for all they felt like normal feathers. The plumage gleamed in his hand and he stared at it for countless minutes, getting lost in the rainbow shine that seemed to gather all of the light in the room.

The heavy rumble of a truck heading down the street distracted him. He tucked the feathers into a napkin and into his pocket, checked the rest of the windows and the front door, set the alarm and turned off the light before heading upstairs. He paused for a moment in front of Neal’s door, but didn’t knock.

Before getting undressed, Peter pulled out the old cigar box, which was overflowing with the mysterious plumage, and sat down on his bed. He took out the feathers he’d just found and, in a little ritual, he dropped them one by one into the box. Instead of slowly drifting down like flakes of snow, each feather dropped with a soft musical chime, like the ringing of a crystal bell.

Peter wasn’t a man given to flights of fantasy, but as he looked at the box, he saw the feathers settle and shift against each other like living creatures and it seemed that they were speaking to each other, welcoming the new additions home.

He didn’t want to delve into this mystery any further, he didn’t want to lose the magic. It was enough to know that somehow, these feathers came from Neal.

Peter closed the box and put it back where it belonged, where it was safe.

He stripped, not bothering with his usual shorts and tee shirt, climbed into bed and turned off the light. Tomorrow would be here soon enough.

He couldn’t wait.

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

He heard Peter come up the stairs, he heard him pause at the closed door before continuing down the hall to his bedroom.

Neal longed for Peter, but he could find no peace, no answers. He’d paced and planned and discarded those plans with every turn, until he couldn’t think anymore.

As much as he longed for a familiar face, he really couldn’t feel lost. He had Peter, and he could find no regrets for the choice he had made. What he lost – his voice, his wings, his immortality – was recompensed by the love he felt for this man, the love that Peter had for him. Because how could it be anything but love?

He’d never been a creature who understood the need for caution. The Elders, particularly June, had tried to teach him the value of prudence, but the lessons never really took. Maybe the one lesson he had learned was from Matthew, who was still paying the price for his own imprudence.

Neal realized that the price of his own headstrong need was going to be his life, but it was worth paying just to have this brief time with Peter, to feel the completeness of his own self in that soul’s presence.

No, that _man’s_ presence.

Neal sat down on the edge of the bed; head buried in his hands and came to a decision. He stripped off his shirt and undershirt, took off his pants and was about to take off his briefs, but changed his mind. If Peter turned him away, it would be a bit less humiliating if he wasn’t completely naked.

There was no light bleeding out from under Peter’s door, but Neal didn’t let the darkness stop him.

He opened the door, and with a deep breath, he stepped across the threshold. This was the first time he entered Peter’s bedroom – he’d considered it a sanctuary for the other man, off limits. But tonight, he was breaking all of the boundaries.

Peter heard him enter and turned on the light next to the bed.

Neal loved how he looked, chest bare, hair mussed from the pillow, concern in his eyes. He wanted to apologize for waking Peter, but that would be a lie.

The concern faded from Peter’s eyes as he smiled. “You didn’t wake me.” He shifted under the covers and sat up. “Are you okay?”

Neal nodded, took one step forward, then another, before stopping, as he was suddenly filled with doubt. Peter’s smile widened and he flipped back the covers, but made no move to get up. The invitation was clear.

“Neal.”

His name, spoken with such deep affection, broke the spell holding him in place and he all but flew across the room.

He paused for a moment at the edge of the bed. Peter reached out and grabbed his hand, pulling him onto the bed.

Neal gasped. Peter’s hand on his wrist felt like fire, but it was nothing compared to the burn of Peter’s mouth against his, of his hands threading through his hair, cupping the back of his skull, holding him with such assurance.

The fire licked down his spine as he arched against Peter, needing to feel skin and heat and sweat.

One of Peter’s hands left the back of his head and started tracing along his shoulder and flames followed. His skin seemed hypersensitive – especially along the path were his wings used to be. Neal wondered at what Peter was feeling – if the sparks that were burning his fingertips, his lips, everywhere they touched were just as pleasurable.

Peter’s mouth left his lips and Neal moaned, or at least his breath left his mouth in a sorrowful rush, but he made no sound. Peter didn’t notice as he kissed his jaw, then his cheek, then his lips found his earlobe. That he didn’t kiss – that he bit and nibbled and sucked and Neal went weak.

Peter stopped and looked at him, love and grave concern darkening his eyes. “Am I going to fast?”

Neal smiled and shook his head, reaching up to bring him close again, to feel his mouth on him.

They were connected from shoulder to thigh and Peter’s skin was hot against his, hotter than he’d ever experienced. Neal felt consumed. The night, the world could burn down around him and he wouldn’t care.

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

Neal rolled over, away from the bright sunshine that filled the room, and met Peter’s smiling face.

“Hey there.”

Neal blinked and returned Peter’s smile.

“Sleep well?”

Neal nodded and sighed deeply. He’d fallen into a dreamless sleep, his mind quiet and his body satiated. In the clear morning light, the happiness and peace shining from Peter’s eyes, Neal couldn’t bring himself to stir the anxieties that drove him last night.

He brushed his fingers against Peter’s lips – the spark was not so much muted, but transformed. The contact felt like the vibration from a ringing bell. Peter kissed his fingers, then leaned over to kiss his mouth. Neal tried, but failed to keep his nose from wrinkling at the smell of Peter’s morning breath.

“Yours is as equally fragrant.” Peter laughed, kissed the tip of his nose and rolled him over so they were nestled like spoons. “Better?”

Neal didn’t answer, but Peter understood anyway. This was nice, though. Not just having Peter’s cock nestled between his ass, but the easy, comfortable closeness, like they’d woken up together every morning for years.

Peter, for his part, wasn’t content to just cuddle. He seemed intent on exploring the tattoo that covered his back and shoulders. Neal rolled onto his stomach to give Peter greater access. For all his time here, with Peter, he’d avoided looking at the markings on his back – just as he avoided looking at his face in the mirror. The images reflected back were unnerving. But Peter seemed to have an endless fascination with them; the few times he’d walked around the house shirtless, Peter watched him like a cat stalking its prey.

Now, with an unfettered view of the tattoo, Peter indulged his fascination. His fingers and lips trailed along the lines on his back, leaving fire in their wake – a different kind of fire. Neal shifted restlessly against the mattress as Peter deliberately teased him.

“So beautiful – you look like you could just unfurl these wings and take flight.”

Neal shivered uneasily. He was never going to fly again.

“Hey, hey – it’s all right. I’m sorry.” Peter sounded worried and repentant, although there was no way he could know what was in his head.

Neal rolled over onto his back, doing his best to ignore the disappointed look in Peter’s eyes. He curved his hand around Peter’s neck and brought him close for a kiss. He kissed Peter with all of the love and the longing he’d carried with him for so long.

He kissed Peter and tasted his soul.

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

 

Peter was of half a mind to ignore the concert tickets in his wallet. He’d much prefer to spend the day alone with Neal. But he couldn’t – he needed to see Moz and tell him in person that their ‘professional’ association was at an end, but if he was interested in continuing to work with the FBI, he’d point him towards Clinton Jones.

He owed Moz that much. And maybe a little more. The guy had been sort of a friend, and although the information he’d provided about the Flynns and James Bennett had turned into a clusterfuck of epic proportions, the intel itself was good. That it cost him his badge was certainly not Mozzie’s fault.

Neal was, per usual, sitting at the dining room table, working on a sketch. This time, Peter had a feeling that he knew what the subject of the drawing was. Or more likely, _who_. Neal kept looking up at him every few minutes. Maybe later, after they got home, he’d ask to see the sketch.

In the meantime, he had two phone calls to make, the first to secure a third ticket for the performance, and the second to see if Reese and David were free for dinner.

The first task took five minutes and seventy-five dollars, but when he hung up, there was a ticket waiting for “Dante Havisham” at the Will-Call box. Peter really couldn’t complain about the cost. Moz had never asked him for a dime in all the years they’d been working together.

Before he called Reese, it would probably be best to see if his post-concert plans were acceptable. “Neal?”

Neal looked up.

“You okay for dinner with Reese and his husband tonight?”

Neal smiled and shook out his right hand, reminding Peter of Reese’s unnecessary exercise in machismo when they first met.

“I promise he won’t do that again. So, okay?”

Neal nodded. There was laughter in his eyes.

Peter called Reese, who picked up on the first ring. He didn’t even give him a chance to make small talk. _“Listen, Peter – I’m glad you called. I was planning on talking to you today, anyway. There’s something you need to know.”_

He absolutely hated when people did that, he hated the sudden rush of fear, the cold sweat those words brought. “What?”

_“Rachel Turner’s been released from Alderton.”_

Peter sighed in relief. “You had me scared there for a moment. I know about that. Clinton and Diana came to see me yesterday. The BoP notice arrived at the office.”

_“ You haven’t forgotten what she said at her sentencing.”_

“Reese – you really can’t think, after twenty years, she’s going to come after me?”

_“I can and I do.”_

“Well, if you’re worried about me – then I’m going to worry about you. She has just as much cause to go after your ass as mine.” Peter knew he was sounding mean and petty, but the whole subject was annoying him.

_“I know that, and I’m taking precautions. So is David.”_

“I know you never go anywhere without your gun.”

_“We’re not going out without protection, Peter. We both are wearing vests when we go out.”_

“You’re not serious?”

_“Peter, I’m absolutely serious. And you should be, too. My contacts haven’t been able to trace her and that worries me. She walked out of Alderton Fed and disappeared.”_

For the first time since Diana and Clinton brought him the news, Peter was worried. He glanced over at Neal, who had that same terrified look that he’d had yesterday afternoon.

_“Maybe you shouldn’t come – not until you’ve gotten a vest for yourself and for Neal. You shouldn’t take any chances.”_

Peter considered and discarded the idea. “I’ll be fine – I’ll keep a lookout for her and I’ll get the body armor tomorrow. Okay?”

Reese didn’t try to get him to change his mind, but Peter could hear that he wanted to. _All right, but just watch yourself.”_

“I will.” Peter sighed, he still hadn’t gotten to his reason for the call, and now he didn’t know if he wanted to. “Is there any chance that you and David want to have dinner with Neal and me tonight? We have tickets to a concert at the Cloisters this afternoon, and should be done around five-thirty.”

Of course Reese couldn’t leave the issue alone. _“I don’t think you should be going out until you get some protection for yourself and Neal.”_

“Reese, please.”

_“Okay, I’ve said my piece.”_

“What about dinner tonight?”

_“Let me check with David.”_

In the background, Peter could hear Reese asking his husband if he was up for company this evening. He couldn’t, however, hear David’s answer.

Reese picked the phone back up. _“You’re in luck. David’s in the mood for Chinese food, and there’s a new delivery place that opened up on 187th Street that’s pretty decent. You and Neal can stop by after the concert and we’ll order in.”_

Peter wasn’t particularly interested in having take-out Chinese, but he couldn’t cancel their dinner plans because the menu didn’t appeal. “Okay, then we’ll see you at half-past five or thereabouts.” Peter ended the call and checked the time. It was a little before two and they needed to leave soon – the concert started at four. But first, before anything else, he needed to reassure Neal that nothing was going to happen. He didn’t like the idea that Neal was so terrified.

Instead of sitting down next to him and trying to explain, again, that this worry was pointless, he pulled Neal out of the chair and into his arms. “I am a man who does his best to never break a promise, and I promise you this: I won’t let anything happen to either of us. Can you believe me?”

Neal stared at him, eyes wide, all of his fears painfully obvious.

“Please, Neal – I need for you to believe that I’ll keep us safe.”

Neal sighed and nodded, but Peter wasn’t sure that he was convinced. Peter tightened his hold and Neal relaxed into him, resting his head on his shoulder. Peter breathed deep, not satisfied, but willing to accept Neal’s partial surrender.

“We’ll be fine, just trust me.”

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

Neal was exhausted by the need for vigilance. He remembered what Rachel Turner looked like – fair skin, dark hair, dark eyes, medium height. She bore the typical features of her family’s heritage in the shape of her eyes, the roundness of her cheeks and chin. But humans age, and in prison, they age badly. He couldn’t form a picture of what Rachel Turner would look like now, so he found himself staring at every middle-aged, dark-haired woman in his vicinity.

He knew he was unnerving Peter, who had at least taken some precaution and was carrying his gun. Not that Neal liked guns – he’d seen humans use them to kill from the very moment of their invention. They disgusted him, but in this case, he was reconciled to his hypocrisy. Not that he could shake the feeling that death and disaster were imminent.

They changed subway lines at Penn Station and Neal’s head felt like it was on a swivel. There were too many people around them and so many women who _could_ be Rachel Turner, intent on killing Peter.

But the trip between subway lines was made without incident. Peter, thank goodness, was vigilant, too. Neal had observed that hawk-like stare for many years, through too many lives not to recognize it. The trip uptown seemed endless, the lights in the car flickering at times. Neal wanted to wrap himself around Peter, to shield him from attack. Instead, he sat next to him, holding his hand like a lost child.

A half-hour after they left Penn Station, the subway pulled into the 190th Street station. Peter tugged him up and out of his seat. “We get out here.”

At least there weren’t as many people in this station, and no one who remotely resembled Rachel Turner.

At nearly four PM in late November, it was almost full dark and the moon was rising as they walked through Fort Tryon Park, towards the Cloisters.

Peter realized what Neal was doing and wrapped an arm around him, drawing him close. “You don’t need to stare at everyone like they’re about to attack me.”

Neal gritted his teeth and ignored the admonition. There was no way he could make Peter understand the dread he was feeling. They should have stayed home.

“Come on, this way.” Peter herded him up the well-lit path leading to the front of the museum. Peter presented the tickets and was given directions to the chapel where the concert would be performed. Under different circumstances, Neal would have enjoyed wandering through the ancient halls and galleries, revisiting the past.

“Pity we don’t have time, I’d like to introduce you to the Unicorn Tapestries – I have a feeling you have much in common with that creature.”

Neal understood, but didn’t appreciate the joke. He was _not_ a mythical creature attracted to virgins.

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

Peter was surprised to see Mozzie waiting for him just outside the doors to the Fuentiduena Chapel. In all the years of their association, Moz had never shown up early. He was pacing back and forth like a cat, stopping to scan the crowd – presumably looking for him – before pacing again. Given the man’s predilection for secrecy and paranoid behavior, Peter couldn’t imagine what information he had that would drive him to such a public display.

He held onto Neal’s hand and moved through the concert goers, finally catching Mozzie’s eye. He stopped pacing, pulled off his glasses and frantically wiped them, put them back on and pulled them off yet again. Neal had stopped moving, his hand suddenly tight in his. Peter turned to look at Neal, wondering if he was having the same reaction he did yesterday, when they’d found Diana and Clinton waiting at the front door.

But instead of fear, there was something very much like joy in Neal’s face. He was smiling and his eyes were wide with wonder, and Peter couldn’t help but feel that Neal somehow knew Mozzie.

And given how little he knew about either man, it was just possible.

Mozzie, for his part, was staring at Neal – not like he was a long-lost friend, but like he’d just been made by the cops but didn’t want to run in case he was wrong.

Peter was about to make his usual, ham-handed introductions, but Neal did the unexpected and wrapped Moz in a bear hug before planting a kiss on his bald pate.

Moz pulled himself free, wiped his head and glared at Neal before deliberately turning his back on him. Peter thought he heard Moz mutter something that sounded like “wingless idiot” but he wasn’t sure.

“Listen, Suit. I’m here – ”

Peter cut him off. “I’m not a ‘suit’ anymore, I retired.” He’d planned to break the news to Mozzie a little more gently, but he was unnerved by Neal’s apparent friendship with this man.

“I know that you retired – you think I don’t hear about these things?”

“Then you know that I can’t use your information anymore, Moz – I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but we can’t work together.”

“Work? We’ve never worked together!” Mozzie’s voice went up several notches in pitch and volume.

“Well, then we’ve been ‘associates’ – do you prefer that term?”

Moz looked around, grimaced and just shook his head. “Look, it doesn’t matter what you call it – not anymore. And besides, you’ll still want the information I have for you.”

Peter had a feeling that he knew just what information Moz had for him. “Which is?”

Moz looked over his shoulder at Neal, who was still grinning, then dragged Peter a little ways away. “I have friends … of the Russian persuasion –”

His gut was right. “I know that Rachel Turner was released from Alderton a few days ago.”

“And she’s coming for you, Suit. She told some people I know that she’s waited twenty years, but she’s going to take out the Fed who murdered her brother.”

This time, Peter couldn’t disregard the warnings; Mozzie’s information was too reliable. “What else do you know?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. She’s not working with her family – the old man’s long gone, the rest of the Petrov clan wants nothing to do with her. Her father washed his hands of her before she went to prison. He’s a law abiding citizen – if you call being a Wall Street banker a law-abiding profession. He has no quarrel with the FBI.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Yeah – I’ve done some digging. He made it clear wants nothing to do with her.”

“But I did kill his son.”

“He was never really considered part of the family. The old man might have had a soft spot for the girl, but her brother was too erratic. He ran with some of the more violent gangs and brought too much attention down on them. Even his grandfather, though he’d never admit it, thought you did them a favor.”

That seemed painfully cold, but it fit the man he’d briefly met two decades ago. “Do you know where she is?” Peter started scanning the crowd, almost expecting her to appear amongst the well-dressed concert goers heading into the sanctuary.

“No – and that’s what worries me. I heard just enough to give you the heads-up, but not enough to really help you. But this might.” Mozzie handed him a photograph of a dark-haired woman who vaguely looked like the young woman he’d arrested twenty years ago.

“How in the world did you get her prison ID picture?”

Moz shrugged. “I told you, I have friends. And well, you’ve always been decent to me – for a Suit. And I’m morally opposed to murder, especially of my friends.” Moz looked down at his feet.

“Well, thank you.” Peter was touched. He liked the guy – but never really figured that there was any affection returned.

Moz got on his tiptoes to look over Peter’s shoulder.

Peter turned to see that Neal was leaning against the wall, still smiling.

“You’ve got an interesting friend there.”

“You know him?”

“Nah – I know his type. Good people, very loyal – not very talkative, though.”

Peter had to grin. “I’ve discovered that.”

“Well, I’d better be off. Watch your back, Peter, and take care of yourself. I’ll be in touch, okay? Oh, and enjoy the concert.”

Peter nodded, pleased that Moz wasn’t planning on disappearing out of his life. Next time they talked, he’d point him in Clinton’s direction.

Moz looked over at Neal again, gave a little sigh and a smile and walked away.

Neal didn’t wait and came back over – worry and pleasure apparent. Peter, of course, had to ask, “You know Mozzie?”

Neal shook his head.

“That was some greeting for a man you don’t know.”

Neal just gave him one of those inexplicable shrugs. Then he gestured – making a gun out of his finger and thumb – before looking around.

Not wanting to talk about it, Peter just said “Later,” and Neal seemed to accept that. The house lights flickered, signaling last call before the chapel doors closed for the concert. Peter put a hand at the small of Neal’s back, guiding him. Of course, that was absolutely unnecessary, but he liked touching Neal and really didn’t need an excuse to do it. Not after last night.

Neal, for his part, leaned into him and Peter enjoyed the warmth that the contact brought and tried to ignore, for a little while, the message his gut was sending him.

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

 

 

Before he’d Fallen, June had told him that he would be powerless in this mortal realm, but she had been wrong. He might have lost his wings, he had certainly surrendered his voice, but he was far from powerless. He saw things – burgeoning new life, ancient souls – that he never perceived as an Archon.

And now, in this strange place – a concatenation of ancient holy places – he found another Archon. The presence of him – _it_ – clearly in disguise, but just as clearly unFallen, filled him with elation. Neal’s mind buzzed with a million questions. How did he come to be here? How did he know Peter? Was he an outcast or was he here of his own will? And if that was so, did he break the barriers and the Law, like Matthew?

The Archon, who Peter called ‘Mozzie’, didn’t really want to have anything to do with him, and maybe he was worried that Neal would expose him. But more importantly, he seemed worried about Peter. Neal didn’t need to listen to their conversation to know what they were talking about – the woman who wanted to kill Peter.

Neal tried to obey Peter, he tried not to worry, to believe that Peter would take all the right precautions and they’d be fine.

But as hard as he tried, he couldn’t manage to shake the dread he’d sensed since last night. He couldn’t see when and how it would happen, he just knew that Peter’s time was ending soon, and it would end in blood and violence.

Mozzie disappeared and Neal wanted to know what he’d told Peter, but of course Peter put him off. “Come on, the concert’s about to start.”

The chapel was lovely and despite his fears, he was looking forward to the music. Peter took his hand and Neal squeezed it, enjoying the warmth and the spark. His heart and his brain battled, reveling in the very public display of affection, but knowing that this happiness was not going to last.

Then the music began and Neal forgot everything. The opening measure sent his heart racing, but it was the massed choir, with its emphatic, joyous sound that broke something open in him.

_Glória in excélsis Deo…_

The words were simple, the Latin prayer exalting god and announcing the birth of his son. The words were beautiful, the musical setting even more so. Neal lost himself in the soaring harmonies, the counterpoint between human voice and the accompanying instruments and the third voice – the acoustics of the chapel itself.

The music served its purpose, creating powerful feelings in the listener, in Neal. He found himself on the verge of something – an emotion he couldn’t name or place.

_Grátias ágimus tibi propter magnam glóriam tuam…_

Listening to the soloist, a soprano with a voice of outstanding purity, Neal felt as if he were cradled and cared for, as if the singer was a mere conduit for all the love in the universe. He drifted amongst the harmonies and counterpoints until the choir burst forth again, stunning him into pleasure.

_Quóniam tu solus Sanctus, tu solus Dóminus, tu solus Altíssimus, Iesu Christe_

The shock continued as the singers and musicians reached ever greater heights. It seemed as if his sundered wings could just burst forth and he’d take flight in answer to that praise.

_Cum Sancto Spíritu, in glória Dei Patris. Amen_

At the final, triumphant _Amen_ , filled with unnamable emotions, Neal felt something break in him.

Not something … the bindings that kept him silent, kept Peter safe from him. Under the cloud of noise from the audience, the clapping and the bravas for the singers, Neal cleared his throat, bent his head and cupped a hand around his ear. He said two words: _“Please, no.”_

And he heard the syllables echo in his head, the first sounds from his own mouth since June bound him to silence.

Neal didn’t know what this meant, but he was shaken, terrified. He remembered Matthew’s story, what had happened to his lover, Kate, and Neal wanted to run, to disappear from Peter’s life before he destroyed him.

The applause died down and the singers and musicians exited. The audience followed suit, but Neal didn’t move. He sat, stunned, head buried in his hands, paralyzed by the magnitude of the disaster facing him. How could he – even for a day – keep from saying Peter’s name when all he longed to do was say it?

“Neal?”

He bent over, hunching away from Peter.

“What’s the matter?”

He shook his head, trying to escape the concern, the love. Despite his behavior, Peter didn’t get annoyed. He just ran a soothing hand up and down his back. “It’s okay – the music is very powerful.”

Neal shuddered and thought, _You have no idea._.

They sat there as the chapel emptied out. A few patrons lingered up front and seemed to be chatting with the conductor, but they left and an usher finally approached.

“Gentlemen, you are going to have to exit the chapel now.”

Peter held him off. “Just give us a moment, okay? My friend is unwell.”

The usher nodded and backed off.

Peter continued to stroke his back. “We _are_ going to have to leave. Reese and David are waiting for us.”

Neal looked up and gritted his teeth, trying to hold back the words that were about to spill out. He stood and looked at everything but Peter. He couldn’t bear the love and concern in the man’s eyes – no, he relished and reveled in them, he couldn’t bear to let that love go unanswered. But if he gave in, he’d destroy Peter far quicker, and more thoroughly than any bullet ever could.

“Come.” Peter took his hand and led him out of the chapel. The passage back to the front of the museum passed through a Romanesque hall, and just beyond that, the interior courtyard garden. The hallway was dark, the museum galleries were closing, and it seemed that he and Peter were going to be the last visitors to leave.

Neal’s thoughts were obsessed with the broken bindings and the need for silence fighting against the need to speak. Maybe that was why he didn’t notice the woman step from behind one of the stone pillars the lined the hallway and point a gun at them.

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

 

“It’s a good thing I’m a patient woman.”

Peter was so caught up in his worry about Neal that he forgot his own life was under threat. And in that lapse, they walked into an ambush.

Rachel Turner – tall and lean and hard – stood there, holding a gun. It was pointed right at his heart. “I’ve waited twenty years for this. Peter Burke – hands up, and you – whoever the fuck you are – hands up, too.”

Peter tried to push Neal behind him but Neal wasn’t cooperating.

“If you don’t want anyone else to get hurt, move into the garden.” Turner didn’t make the amateur’s mistake of gesturing with her gun, but she tilted her head towards the courtyard garden.

Peter knew that cooperating – at least for the moment – might be the best way to come out of this alive. “You have no quarrel with my friend. He’s done nothing to you, let him go.”

She seemed to consider it, then shook her head. “No – no. Both of you, into the garden.”

“Please,” Peter begged.

Turner got angry at that. “You didn’t show any mercy to my brother when you executed him.”

“I did, Rachel – I told him to drop his weapon, to let Agent Hughes go. He didn’t. He was going to kill my friend.”

The courtyard was barely lit, but Peter could still read her face. He could see the muscles in her jaw clench, her eyes narrow. He knew that there was nothing he could say that would keep her from shooting him. His only hope was to get her to let Neal go.

“My brother was protecting the family.”

“And I was protecting _my_ family. I’m protecting my family now. Let my friend go.” He backed up towards the center of the garden, almost tripping on a piece of paving. Neal caught him, his hand sliding into his jacket. Peter froze. Neal had his hand wrapped around his gun.

Hoping that it was too dark for Rachel Turner to see, he stumbled again and Neal pulled the Glock out of the holster.

This was going to end badly, Peter could feel it.

Neal stepped back, the gun pointed at Turner. He looked terrified, desperate.

The woman laughed. “So much for your friend not being involved.” She shifted her aim and shot Neal in the chest, the sound obscenely loud in that sacred place.

Peter heard the scream rip from his mouth, he watched Neal touch his chest and lift his fingers away. In the half-light, the blood looked black. He fell to his knees and collapsed. Peter could hear Neal struggling to breathe as liquid filled his lung.

Turner’s voice was replete with icy satisfaction. “My revenge just became that much sweeter. You are going to watch someone you love die and then I’m going to kill you, too.”

Peter didn’t even think about retrieving the weapon that Neal had dropped as he rushed to his side.

“Don’t – don’t, oh god, please don’t …” Peter’s hands shook as he touched the wound. Hot blood poured out and the stench of iron burned his nostrils. He couldn’t stop it; he couldn’t do a damn thing to keep Neal alive. Neal, who had fallen into his life and given him joy, was dying for no reason.

Peter bent his head over Neal, brushing his lips against his cheek – the skin growing cold from the shock. “I love you, I love you. I love you, Neal.” He whispered those words like a prayer, but prayer was pointless.

Neal turned his head, his mouth moving and Peter thought he heard a sound coming from Neal’s lips. He bent lower, trying to hear the impossible.

_“Always loved you, Peter…”_

Neal said his name and it was as if the universe shattered. Thought and ideas, memories of people that he didn’t know, lives he never lived, flooding through his brain. He saw the past through eyes he knew, somehow, to be his own, but the past was a broken mosaic. He was a monk, a lady, a soldier, a wife and mother, a man dying, a child at the moment of birth. Every moment of every life was relived between one heartbeat and the next. He stared at Neal, drowning in the blueness of his eyes and suddenly, there were feathers everywhere, drifting around him, cushioning and protecting him. The memories slowed, the inexorable cascade halted and he was four years old again. The sky was blue and he was soaring and then he was flying and falling and someone caught him, a man with eyes like the sky and great white wings. He had clung to the man until he was near the ground. The man had finally let him go and he dropped on his bottom and it hurt. He wanted the man back, he wanted to be held in those arms and soar among the clouds again.

Neal’s eyes were the same shade of blue as his memory – pale and bright like the midday sky – but that brightness was fading too quickly. Peter clung to that childhood memory; it drove back the madness of all those other lives.

“Now you know how it feels to lose someone you love. Maybe I should let you live and suffer just like I lived and suffered.”

Peter looked up. Rachel Turner was standing over him, her gun pointed at his head. From the corner of his eye, he could see people rushing towards them, lights flashing. He could hear shouting in the distance.

“No, maybe not. Time to die, Peter Burke.”

Nothing was going to stop the future, though. Peter focused on the woman and the gun and waited to die. He watched her squeeze the trigger and time slowed – he could see the bullet spinning down the gun’s muzzle, the point emerging from the barrel. He waited for the bullet to speed through his brain, he longed for it.

But the bullet never came. He was again enveloped by feathers, by wings, and the world and all its pain just disappeared.

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

Neal wasn’t sure where he was.

But he knew where he was not. He was not in the cloistered garden where he should have died. It was not the guest bedroom in Peter’s home, where he had slept for so many nights. Nor was it Peter’s own bedroom, where he’d woken up to a smile and a kiss.

He kept his eyes closed, too afraid to look. Too afraid to see his fate.

“Neal, open your eyes.”

He knew that voice, the stern and loving tones terrifying him as much as they filled him with elation.

“Neal.”

His name was followed by a caress, and he gave into his need to see a face he’d longed for. “June.”

She was standing over him, smiling.

Neal tried to reconcile her visible pleasure with the terrible punishment he had earned.

“Welcome home, Neal.”

He _was_ home – this was, of all places – his aerie. He was back amongst his kind. “What happened?”

“Everything that needed to happen.”

“I do not understand.”

June’s smile broadened. “Of course you do not understand. You were not supposed to.”

His confusion increased and Neal shifted against the bedding, trying to sit up. But he was dragged back by an unfamiliar weight. He looked over his shoulder and was shocked to see the mass of white plumage – his wings. “How?”

“All will be explained in good time, my dear.” June helped him into a sitting position. “Do you not want to know about your beloved?”

Neal’s heart raced and he went cold with dread. “Peter?” The syllables rang pure and sweet against the stone walls of his aerie.

“Yes, that is his name.”

He swallowed, fear thick and painful in his throat. “Yes, please – is he all right?” Such a simple question when what he wanted to ask, _Is he still amongst the living? Is he sane?_

June ran her fingers through his curls. “Peter is fine. He is sleeping and healing, but he will be fine.”

Neal stood up and regretted the motion. His legs where shaking and he felt weighed down by his wings, and there was, unbelievably, a bandage across his chest. He looked down, shocked.

“You _were_ wounded, Neal.”

He touched the bandage, pressing lightly. It hurt. “So it did happen?”

“Yes, and we nearly lost you.”

He wondered if that might have been better, in the long run.

June handed him a pair of trousers. “It is a little chilly to walk around naked.” He put them on, becoming breathless from the minor exertion. “Come.” June tucked her arm under his, as if they were just going for a stroll, but it was all too clear that she was keeping him upright.

Neal headed for the mirror pool, wondering how he would be able to just watch Peter, never being able to touch him again, never feel the warmth of that body against him. The pain was almost too much to bear.

June tugged at his arm, “Where are you going?”

“I – uh -” He looked helplessly at the mirror pool, its surface perfectly still and waiting for him to call up the image of Peter from its depths. Neal wondered if it would be possible to Fall again, if he could get June to renew the bindings.

“You will not find him there, Neal.”

His confusion increased, but there was something mysterious in her smile, something that gave him hope. Neal tried not to lean on June, to stand on his own, but she just held on tighter, gently leading him out of his chambers.

There was another aerie on this level, one that had not been used since before Neal had claimed his space. It had been part of the reason why he wanted that particular aerie. He liked the privacy, it suited his needs. But now, there was an Archon at the door, her tunic the traditional healer’s green. She smiled as they approached.

The hope was now colored with wonder. “June?”

Of course, she did not answer him. But she did ask the healer a question. “How is your patient?”

“He still sleeps, but he will wake soon.” The Archon pulled open the doors.

Neal was frozen, almost terrified at what he would find.

June pulled him forward. “Come, Neal, all is well.”

Her words did not reassure him and he dug in his heels. Except June was stronger and she propelled forward, into the newly opened aerie.

It was not all that dissimilar to his own – a mirror pool dominated the center of the space and like his, it was quiescent. June walked past the pool, over to a sleeping area. The bed was also like Neal’s – like every other Archon’s – large and round, a platform that could accommodate a creature with vast wings.

And the bed _was_ occupied. By Peter.

But for June’s steadying arm, Neal might have collapsed.

She pulled him the last few steps forward and any doubts that Neal had were banished. It was Peter, he was sleeping. Not the sleep of someone ill or dying, but a restful sleep – his chest rising and falling in a deep, healthy rhythm. He was stretched out, on his side, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting under his cheek.

He was sleeping on his side because Archons cannot sleep comfortably on their backs. Their wings make that position too uncomfortable.

This time Neal did collapse, falling to his knees at the side of the bed. Peter’s wings were deep bronze, tipped with silver and gold. And to Neal, they were the most beautiful he had ever seen. He reached out, wanting to touch but too afraid this was merely an illusion.

June brushed her fingertips against his shoulder, drawing his attention away for just a few moments. “When Peter wakes, I will explain everything. All of your questions will be answered.”

She left him kneeling next to the bed. He ached, physically, but the discomfort was minor compared to his happiness. Neal didn’t understand how Peter could be an Archon, how this transformation could happen, but he couldn’t deny the evidence in front of him. And he trusted June, he trusted the healer, when she said that Peter was well.

Which meant that Neal’s careless utterance didn’t destroy Peter. He knelt and watched his beloved sleeping and he tried to reconcile what he knew with what he’d been told. Matthew didn’t lie when he warned him what would happen, June had bound him to silence to keep him from destroying Peter, and yet, Peter was here and whole. More than whole.

Neal reached out, this time he did not stop himself from caressing Peter’s cheek. He brushed his fingertips against the warm skin and felt the spark, the living connection between them, echo through him. The pain from his wound, the weakness caused by that injury or maybe by the transit back from the mortal realm, from the reemergence of his wings, was gone. He felt strong, energized, and most oddly enough, complete.

Until the very moment, Neal had not realized that there was a part of himself that was missing.

And then all such thoughts left him. Peter opened his eyes and smiled.

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

Peter’s first thought upon wakening and seeing Neal, was that he’d had the most terrible dream. But the man before him was surrounded by light. No, not light, by bright white feathers – wings arching over him.

He’d never been much of a believer. Even as a child, he’d been skeptical of the stories of angels in heaven. There had always been something in him that scoffed at the thought of the virtuous dead being given wings and a halo at the Pearly Gates, wearing white robes and doing nothing but being even more virtuous. And yet, Neal was in front of him, great white wings sprouting from his back, his whole being shining.

Because Neal had, in fact, died.

And that meant that he must have died, too.

But that didn’t feel right. He sorted through his memories – they seemed muddled, confused. Rachel Turner was pointing a gun at his head, but there was another woman, holding a knife to his throat. He was an infant and an old man, a warrior with a sword and shield and a monk with little more than a robe and sandals.

He was a child soaring through the sky heading for certain death when he’d been caught by someone, something with great white wings and sky-blue eyes and carried to safety.

_Neal_.

He must have spoken, because the man he knew as “Neal” smiled and leaned forward, his wings rustling. His lips moved and Peter heard him speak.

“How are you?”

Such a simple, banal question. He didn’t know if he could answer it – he didn’t know if he believed his ears. The man he knew couldn’t speak – or maybe he could? Peter remembered that horrible last moment, Neal dying in his arms, whispering his name, telling him he loved him. “Who are you?”

“You know me.”

“The man I knew was mute. Or was he?”

“I was – for a time. It was part of the price I had to pay.”

“I don’t understand.”

Neal – or whoever he was – smiled. “To tell you the truth, I do not really understand, either.”

Peter wasn’t having this conversation while he was prone. He tried to sit up but something was holding him back. Neal stood and wrapped his arms around him, helping him into a sitting position. But something was still holding him back. He tried to straighten himself up and there was still something tangled in the bedding. He leaned forward, stretching and he was suddenly surrounded by masses of feathers. Not white like Neal’s, but bronze and silver and gold.

“What the – ?” He rolled forward, trying to escape, except the feathers followed him. He had … wings. All sorts of curses came to his lips, but he stopped himself, afraid to blaspheme in what might be a holy place.

“I do not know how it happened, but you are one of us, now.”

“An angel?”

“No. We are not angels – not by mortal definition.”

“Okay, then what are _we_?”

Neal smiled at the subtle emphasis. “We call ourselves ‘Archons’.”

“And I’m an Archon now, too?”

Neal shrugged, that familiar gesture made more elegant by the shifting pattern of his wings. “Yes, it seems so.”

Peter had a million questions, but his stomach rumbled and that answered at least one of them. “We eat?”

“Yes, but I am afraid I cannot order pizza with mushrooms and sausage for us.”

Peter had to smile at the memory of their first meal together. “Then what do we eat?” He tried to stand but lost his balance. Neal wrapped and arm around his waist and helped him get upright. He managed to stand on his own, then took a step, and then another. It was a matter of balance. His wings were heavy.

And he was naked. “Umm, pants?”

Neal smiled and Peter had to smile. It was like that first night all over again. Only this time, _he_ was the stranger in a very strange land.

Neal opened a chest of drawers and came back with a pair of trousers that looked much like the ones he was wearing. The fabric was grayish-white, and heavy – like denim. They had a drawstring instead of zippers and buttons, and of course they were a little short for his long legs. But it was better than being naked. Peter assumed that shirts were a different matter altogether – with the wings. But Neal handed him something else – it looked like three rectangles of fabric sewn together.

“Let me help you.” It took a little maneuvering, but the fabric somehow became a tunic and he felt a little less disoriented, more normal.

“Now what?”

“Now, we eat, then we get answers to our questions.”

Peter followed Neal out of the bedroom into a vast, open cavern dominated by a pool of still water and a window out onto a world he’d never imagined.

“Those aren’t birds, are they?”

“No, they are not.”

At least the scents coming from a small table seemed familiar. Warm bread, melted cheese, something that could have been red sauce. But the plates didn’t hold pizza, more like grilled cheese and tomato soup.

Neal sat down across from him and for the first time, Peter noticed the bandage across his midsection.

“She did shoot you.”

Neal nodded, then seemed to remember he had a voice. “Yes, she did.”

“But you lived.”

“Yes – we both did.”

Peter picked up the sandwich and took a bite. It was delicious, though not as familiar as he’d thought it would be. He had to ask, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you come into my life?” And yet, as he asked, he knew the answer. “You’ve always been there, haven’t you?”

Neal nodded slowly, his eyes grave and there was something akin to fear in them. “What do you remember?”

“A lot of fragments, except for this one moment. I was a child – something happened and you saved me.” He swallowed against a suddenly dry mouth. “Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“No, he does not, Peter.” A woman entered the chamber, also winged. The wall seemed to ring as she said his name.

Neal stood. “June, you promised. You promised to tell me what has happened.”

“And so I did.” She turned back to him. “I am – as Neal has said – June. Welcome to our world.”

She offered her hand, a strangely human-like gesture. Peter took it, steeling himself for a shock or spark, but there was none. Just the warmth of living flesh. “June, a pleasure.” Peter couldn’t help but notice the unusual way the room echoed when he said her name.

She sat down gracefully and fixed him with an intent gaze. “What has Neal told you?”

“Not all that much. That he is an Archon, and so am I – now. He said he doesn’t understand what happened, and I’m guessing that it’s some mystery that only you can solve.”

She tilted her head regally. “Yes, you are correct.”

Peter wanted to lean back, take control of the conversation, but he was afraid he’d fall over. The wings were still an unaccustomed burden. So he waited.

June looked from him to Neal and back to him. “This is always the most difficult part – trying to find the right place to begin.

Peter tried for a small joke, “The beginning is always a good place to start.”

June seemed to appreciate the humor. “Then so we shall. Humans have immortal souls. We – the Archons – watch over some of them. Not all, just ones that seem to reach out and seek our guidance. We watch over these souls through all of their mortal births and lives and deaths, and continue watching as they are reborn, cycle after cycle – through eternity. Some Archons watch over many souls, some tend to just one.”

“So – you are guardian angels?” Peter spoke without thinking, then remembered what Neal had said.

“No – we are not. Human mythology has intersected with our kind, but our role is much less – and much more – than the stories tell. We are guardians in a way, but we rarely interfere with the course of a human life.”

“Then what is the point?”

June, like Neal, conveyed so much with an elegant shrug of her shoulders. Her wings rustled. “That is _our_ great mystery. We have always watched over human souls – that is just the way it is.”

“How?” Peter was intensely interested in the mechanics.

“We can see into your world through any reflective surface. The mirror pools – ” She gestured to the one in the center of the room, “are our preferred portals, but any still pool of water, a filled glass, even a droplet of rain can be a window. We see the mortal world – your _former_ world – through its own reflective surfaces.”

Peter looked from June to Neal, making the connection that now seemed so obvious. “Neal has been watching over me.”

Neal nodded. “It has been my grace, my pleasure.”

“What happened?” Peter knew that something had to have gone wrong. “Why did you come to me?”

June didn’t answer, leaving it up to Neal to explain. “Your soul was – ” Neal seemed to struggle with the words. “Was ending.”

“Ending?”

“Yes. You were supposed to be immortal, but then you were not. The life you lived as Peter Burke was to be your last. I could not bear that.”

Peter grew cold at the thought. “Why?”

This time, June answered. “Neal interfered. He does not remember what happened, but what he did changed you.”

This Peter understood, this was what he kept remembering. “That time, on the swings.”

“Yes. You would have been killed when the chain snapped, but Neal reached through a mirror pool and saved you. At great cost to himself. We are immortal, but we can be killed – and transit through the mirror pools is … destructive.”

Neal shook his head, as if to deny the story. “I do not remember this. I do not remember this happening.” Neal hugged himself, his wings quivering in distress.

June tried to soothe Neal. “You were not supposed to. You acted without thinking and you paid the price for that.”

“Peter’s soul – that was my price.” Neal sounded so traumatized that it was all Peter could do from wrapping his arms – his wings even – around him, to give him some comfort.

“No – not in the least.” June was parceling out the answers too slowly. “When you crossed through the barrier, you opened yourself up; you made yourself too vulnerable to the mortal world. When you carried Peter to safety, you left part of yourself behind.”

“The feather.” Peter blinked. “There was a feather, I remember grabbing it. Neal left a feather behind. I still have it. I _had_ it.” He remembered that those feathers were in a box in his night table drawer in a world no longer his own.

June shook her head. “Yes, Neal did leave a feather behind, but that’s not what wrought the change. He left part of his own soul in you.”

Neal stood up abruptly, his wings flaring. Peter was reminded of a hawk about to dive for its prey.

“I did not mean to do that.”

“No, of course not, my dear. And please sit back down.”

Neal obediently settled on the stool, looking chastened.

“Such things happen. We grow attached to a soul, too attached some might claim. We reach a point where it becomes impossible not to interfere.”

Peter wasn’t sure what June was saying, but Neal seemed to understand. He was glad that someone did. “Archons – this is how new Archons are made.”

“Yes. And it has been a very long time since we have welcomed new life into our midst.” She put her hand over Peter’s, squeezing gently. “You are an unusual case. Of all the Archons that have been made, you are one of the few who came to us as an adult, with your adult memories intact. What I have told you is rarely shared with fledglings. The knowledge is too dangerous.”

At that, June stood. “Gentlemen, I will make my farewells. At least for the moment. You are both healing and need your rest. And I think you need to spend some time getting reacquainted with each other. ”

Neal stopped her. “Before you go, I have one more question.”

“Yes?”

“Matthew told me what happened to Kate when he said her name. That was why you bound my voice, so I would not make that mistake. So I wouldn’t destroy -” Neal paused and swallowed, “Peter. Was Matthew mistaken?”

Peter wasn’t sure just what Neal was getting at, and he wondered about this Matthew – another Archon, maybe?

June nodded. “No, he wasn’t. The danger is real to souls that are not ready. When you gave part of yourself to Peter, you gave him a shield him from those consequences. He was able to anchor himself to that moment. When the bindings broke and you said his name, we were able to retrieve you.”

At that, June swept out of the room, as regally as she’d entered.

Neal seemed to accept June’s explanation, even though Peter had no clue what any of this meant. All he knew that he was his life was irrevocably changed.

“Are you angry?” Neal was nervous, his wings fluttered.

“Why?”

“I interfered with your life.”

“I would have died if you hadn’t.”

“But you would have been reborn into another life.”

Peter thought for a moment and shook his head. “No, I had a good life. I can remember all of it. I was loved and cherished by my parents. They encouraged me to be the best I could be.” He had no misgivings, everything felt right – that it all was as it needed to be. “I wouldn’t change anything. Not losing El, not anything that came after that. I liked the man I was. I like the man I am now. I had good friends and a wife I loved, a life that meant something, and for a while, I had you.”

Neal blinked, his face pale, his eyes huge. “You can still have me, you know. If you still want me.” The paleness was overtaken by a bright blush.

Peter’s heart raced and it seemed like he’d developed goose bumps on his wings – every feather was ruffled. He wanted to make sure he understood. “We can … be together? As we were?”

Neal’s smile was like the rising dawn. “Of course we can. I told you, we are not angels.”

Peter laughed and the sound echoed around the chamber like a brightly ringing bell.

 

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:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

**Epilogue**

It didn’t take much to get inside the Suit’s abode. Even if he didn’t have the Suit’s keys, the locks were pitiful, the alarm system barely worth the price.

Mozzie looked around. This was a pleasant home, designed for comfort, not for show. It was a pity he couldn’t finagle his way into taking possession of it. It wasn’t like the Suit was going to need it anymore. Maybe this was something he could work on.

But that was for later. Right now, he had tasks to complete. Mozzie headed upstairs, first checking the guest room where that wingless idiot had been staying. He stripped off the bedding, making sure that there was nothing untoward left behind.

Nope, no feathers here. Just to make certain, Moz checked the closets, the drawers, even getting down on his hands and knees to look underneath the furniture. Dust bunnies aplenty, but no oversized white plumage. He fought the urge to sneeze.

The master bedroom was a different story. The bed was unmade and Moz wished he’d thought to bring a pair of rubber gloves, or maybe a hazmat suit. He pulled back the covers and found two feathers. Under the pillows were more feathers. Of course, the mother lode was the old cigar box of feathers that the Suit kept in his night table drawer.

Mozzie added his find to the cache and started to look for the Suit’s safe. The man certainly lacked imagination, hiding it behind rather indifferent artwork in a small built-in nook. Centurion, a few years old, with a key and electronic combination lock entry. The key, conveniently, was on the ring he’d lifted from the Suit before they took him _away_. The combination wasn’t a problem either. Moz took care of it the same way he took care of the keypad by the front door.

The safe’s contents was almost as dull as the artwork that covered it. Life insurance policies, a copy of the Suit’s Last Will and Testament, a small velvet bag that contained a few pieces of jewelry. The property of the late Mrs. Suit. Moz stifled his acquisitive nature and put the bag back. Stealing a dead woman’s jewelry was wrong. What he needed was tucked behind a box of ammo – the Suit’s passport.

He hated jobs like this. They needed too much improvising. But on the other hand, they were challenging and he certainly loved a good challenge. Making a grown man plausibly disappear – particularly one with an over-developed sense of responsibility and friends in law enforcement –was a lot harder than a small child.

So, he was going to have to sharpen his quill, metaphorically speaking, forge a few letters, send some e-mails, play with Photoshop, use the passport a few times. Maybe “Peter” would take a trip to Italy or maybe Tahiti – or possibly both. He had the Suit’s wallet; there were plenty of credit cards in there. Bills would have to be paid, but that wouldn’t be a problem. It was all the Suit’s money anyway.

The trick was persuading the Suit’s friends that he just took off – that he’d been spooked at the concert and decided to go on a trip. The old gray Suit was a little too sharp for Mozzie’s tastes, and convincing him that his friend decided to decamp to someplace sunnier and safer was going to be difficult. But he was nothing if not creative.

He locked up the safe, put the artwork back, put the Suit’s passport in his pocket and picked up the box of feathers. Not only did he have to cover the Suit’s disappearance; he had a delivery to make – no time to just hang around and savor the bourgeoisie lifestyle.

June was an exacting taskmistress and he hated to disappoint her.

 

 

FIN

 

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Feedback at the Author's [LiveJournal entry](http://elrhiarhodan.livejournal.com/450585.html) is most appreciated, as are comments and kudos here.

**Author's Note:**

> You’d think that writing an urban fantasy wouldn’t require as much research as say, a casefic, but it does. White Collar fan fiction readers are highly intelligent, very well educated, and they deserve more than handwaving at the details. But there are a few details that inevitably have to be handwaved away.
> 
> **1 – The music.** The music that is featured in this story is real and has great personal meaning. The piece that Neal brings Matthew is a performance of Leonard Bernstein’s _Chichester Psalms_ , specifically Psalm 23 (The Lord is My Shepherd). ([YouTube link for Bernstein-conducted performance](http://youtu.be/LCOBWxUZbmA))
> 
> It is, I hope you agree, one of the 20th century’s finest works of sacred music. I had the opportunity to perform this work as a member of the chorale, back in the mid-1980s, and that was one of my favorite performances.
> 
> I did run into a problem using it in this story, though. Leonard Bernstein had left instructions that the soloist should only be a male countertenor or a boy alto – never a woman, because the psalm was to be heard as if sung by the boy David, himself. 
> 
> I had spent hours looking for a piece of sacred music that would substitute for this and came up empty, then finally decided that it (1) didn’t matter and (2) fit into the theme of ‘the forbidden’.
> 
> The second piece of music, Vivaldi’s _Gloria_ , or as Peter says, “ **The** Vivaldi _Gloria_ ” is one of three settings that Antonio Vivaldi wrote for the Greater Doxology. One, RV 590, is lost, the other RV588, is a good work, but RV589 is truly one of the most magnificent pieces of music ever written. [YouTube link for complete performance by the Roberts Wesleyan College Chorale and Orchestra](http://youtu.be/XsKGN_6M61c)
> 
> There is such power in the opening and closing movements, it’s as if the world has been created just at that moment. Listen at full volume if you can – it’s truly a work that gets better the louder it’s played.
> 
> So, what about the handwaving? The Fuentiduena Chapel at the Cloisters in New York City has hosted many musical performances – but generally for the Medieval and early Renaissance eras. Its acoustics are well suited to chant and polyphony and plainsong. This setting of the Gloria was written in the early 18th century, and it would be unlikely that the Cloisters would be deemed an appropriate setting for any performance of Baroque music. Also, the chapel is small and it would be difficult to accommodate a full-sized choir and chamber orchestra.
> 
> Also, it’s a relatively short piece – about 35 minutes, start to finish – and thus unlikely to be the only piece on a program.
> 
> But the story required both the Cloisters and this particular piece of music, and I’m sort of stubborn when it comes to these things.
> 
> **2 – The Layout of the Burkes’ house.** Yes, yes, I know it’s impossible to see the upstairs landing from the couch, but again, chalk it up to my own stubborn nature.
> 
> **3 – Frank Buttino.** In Part IV, during the flashback scenes, Peter and Reese mention Frank Buttino without any further explanation. He’s not an OC that got partially written out. He’s a real person – a highly decorated FBI agent who was, in the late 1980s, anonymously outed to both his family and to the FBI, and was subsequently terminated. The FBI said that it wasn’t because he was gay, but because he lied on his application to the FBI about whether or not he was gay. 
> 
> He sued for discrimination and reinstatement.
> 
> In December, 1993, the FBI agreed to settle the discrimination claim for an untold sum and Agent Buttino agreed to waive his claim for reinstatement ([NYT article](http://www.nytimes.com/1993/12/03/us/gay-workers-gain-bias-rule-at-fbi.html?smid=pl-share)). But, more importantly, the FBI agreed to end its policy of discriminating against gays and lesbians. What was unusual – both then and now – is that the FBI was not subject to court ordered compliance monitoring. And even more amazing is that the FBI actually complied with the court order. The Clinton administration, which was ultimately responsible for both DOMA and DADT, actively worked to make the FBI a truly non-discriminatory agency. Sexual orientation was added to the department's list of unacceptable forms of employment discrimination -- race, color, religion, sex, national origin or disability. 
> 
> The FBI we see in White Collar has come a very long way from the homophobic institution that actively discriminated against gays and lesbians until the mid-1970s and then used more subtle means to eliminate them from the ranks.
> 
> So, in the pilot, when Peter says “Don’t ask, don’t care” – he is making a completely true statement.


End file.
